Redemption
by Renee17
Summary: Seventy years have passed since the destruction of Ahm Shere. In the Sudanese desert, an archaeological team's discovery begins a chain of events that could end an ancient curse, or unleash a new one upon an unsuspecting world. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

_I shall be with you in this and other worlds. When you look up, know I am there—sun and moon pouring my love around you. You and I together are a single creation. Neither death nor spite nor fear nor ignorance stops my love for you._

_- Excerpt from "Hymn to Osiris", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

The wind blew cold across the desert, banishing the arid heat of the day and bringing a welcome respite to the encampment. The evening meal over, the camp workers cleaned up the cooking areas and began preparations for breakfast the next day. Soon, their seventeen hour work day would be at an end, and they would be able to seek the relative comfort of their crowded tents and flea-infested bedrolls. Around the campfire, the site supervisors drank coffee and huddled over maps of the site, arguing about where to begin excavations the next day. Voices animated, they debated in an odd mixture of tongues—Arabic, Hebrew, English, and the occasional French expletive.

Eliana emerged from her tent and shivered in the night air. Rubbing her arms to warm them, she glanced over at the campfire, where her father, the Egyptologist in charge of the excavation, argued vehemently with his counterpart from the Cairo Museum of Antiquities. John Bernstein was a renowned archaeologist, but his sometimes unorthodox methods of handling excavations tended to draw the fire of more conventional scientists. Sighing, Eliana turned away from the group. A scientist herself, although in the field of linguistics, she would be welcomed to the debate, and on most occasions would have enjoyed adding her opinions to the melee. Tonight, though, she felt reticent about joining the noisy group, preferring the solitude of the outer edge of the encampment. She walked past the tired workers, smiling and calling out a thanks to them in Arabic. She continued past the supply tents and the hastily erected corrals for the pack animals, feeling oddly comforted by the huffing and stamping of the pack horses and the quiet shuffling of the camels. At the edge of the camp, she looked out into the blackness of the desert at night, an endless ocean of sand, stretching out before her, timeless and eternal. Sitting down on a flat boulder, she shivered again, wondering for the umpteenth time whether or not she had made a mistake in agreeing to accompany her father on this dig. Normally, she wouldn't have thought twice about agreeing to pack her bags and traipse off with her father on one of his expeditions. She had, after all, been frequently dragged along with him during her childhood, and in fact had fond memories of those adventures. Her travels with her father had become less frequent, though, after she had entered the university and begun her own intense studies, although she still managed to join him during the summer months at whatever site he happened to be overseeing. But there was something different about this trip.

Had she been asked to put into words what that difference was, Eliana wouldn't have been able to, for it had more to do with a vague, unsettled feeling that had begun to grow in her as soon as her feet touched the ground at the site than it had to do with anything concrete or measurable. Scientist that she was, Eliana held an inherent distrust of anything she couldn't observe, quantify, measure or analyze, so she had simply brushed off her foreboding. The feeling had persisted, though, even growing stronger during the week she had been here. It wasn't as much a premonition of something terrible about to happen as it was a lingering feeling of sadness; a lonely, aching feeling of regret and loss that she was completely at a loss to explain. As far as Eliana knew, she had never set foot on this particular patch of the Nubian desert or even heard of the Ahm Shere Oasis archaeological site before her father had made it his life's work, much less had any reason to react to it as strongly as she had upon arrival.

But there was definitely something about this place that made her react so viscerally. She could feel it in the sand beneath her feet, in the wind blowing across her face, in the heat of the midday sun beating on her skin. It was as though she had been here before, sometime, and left something unfinished. It niggled and tickled at the back of her brain like the feet of scratching insects, and Eliana's inherent stubborn streak demanded that she stick it out at the site, and at least attempt to lay whatever ghost was troubling her to rest. Not that Eliana believed in ghosts, of course.

Sighing, she shook off her pensiveness and lifted her face to the cooling breeze. At around nine o'clock tomorrow morning, she'd give a lot to have a cool breeze wafting through the dig site. At around eleven, she'd kill for a breath of fresh air. At noon, the site crew broke for a three-hour rest—the midday heat would kill them if they attempted to work through it. Later in the afternoon, they'd begin the strenuous manual labor again, but no one did much of anything during the heat of the sun's zenith.

Her gaze scanning the sweeping dome of the sky above her, Eliana picked out the distinctive blurred signature of the comet that had appeared in the sky to the northeast a week or so ago. Resembling its celestial cousin, Hale-Bopp, which had graced the skies over North America seven years ago, the comet arced overhead, the bright sweep of its tail trailing behind it on its journey around the sun. It was a beautiful thing to behold, one of the many mysteries of nature that had intrigued scholars and scientists over the centuries, playing a large part in humanity's collective myths and legends since the dawn of time. Comets were such lonely things, traveling through the solar system on their solitary journeys. Eliana couldn't remember reading much about this one, except that it was one of the more rare visitors. Like Hale-Bopp, this comet had been absent from the skies over Earth for millennia. Briefly, she wondered who had seen it the last time it had appeared, wondered who had looked up from the Earth and seen its fiery magnificence overhead. Interesting, how the comet's presence linked the two eras, forging a bond of shared experience between this age and one long past.

But that kind of thinking was too deep for Eliana right now. She had come out here to relax, to escape from her thoughts. Closing her eyes, Eliana enjoyed the feel of the wind blowing her hair back and caressing her face. She leaned back, resting her hands on the boulder, which still radiated warmth from the heat of the day. The strange, disoriented feeling that had been plaguing her since her arrival was still present, but the night air was soothing, and sitting here, absorbing the feel of the desert at night, served to allay some of the unsettledness in Eliana's soul. The breeze swept over her and around her, gentle as a lover's touch. _Remember_, it seemed to whisper. _Remember me; remember us, what we were to each other…_

Starting upright, Eliana blinked several times and shook her head to clear the fogginess that had enveloped her mind. Frowning, she stood up and brushed the sand off her jeans. Now where had a thought like that come from? Slightly disgusted with herself for fancying that she heard voices in the wind, she turned to go back to her tent and turn in for the evening. Shaking her head, she grimaced in wry amusement. Next thing you know, she'd be seeing things appear from the sands of the desert itself.

* * *

"Damn it, John! We can't just start digging! We need to wait for the representatives from the Sudanese government to arrive. If we remove so much as a spoonful of sand from this godforsaken wasteland before they arrive to oversee the dig, they'll kick us out so fast it'll make your head spin!" 

Eric Johnson dragged his fingers through his well-mussed blonde hair, frustration evident in every tense angle of his lanky body. He had been arguing with his boss and mentor for the better part of the evening, and he was about ready to throw in the towel. Indeed, the Egyptian museum director had given up in frustration several minutes ago, and stomped off to his tent. If Dr. Bernstein wanted to piss off the Sudanese government by refusing to kowtow to their oppressively rigid rules and regulations regarding archaeological permits, then there was no stopping him, as Eric knew from past experience. But Eric didn't need to like it, or go along with it willingly. This expedition was one he had waited his whole life for, and he wasn't about to botch it up before it even got started.

While Eric looked red-faced and frustrated, the middle-aged man he was talking to couldn't have looked calmer. Dark-haired and still handsome, even at fifty-four, John Bernstein calmly took a sip of his brandy and lifted an eyebrow at the younger man.

"You know, don't you, Eric, that they're dragging their feet on purpose, just to prove a point? If we were, say, a French crew, rather than an American one, they'd be falling all over themselves to help us out."

"Yes, John, I know that. But the fact of the matter is that we are here on their sufferance, and only because it's an American oil company that happened to be running the geological survey that turned up the findings in the first place. We have to play nice, at least to some extent." Eric sighed and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees and bending forward to look earnestly into the face of the man he had admired and looked up to for almost fifteen years. "Please, don't jeopardize the dig by refusing to wait a day or so…"

Bernstein looked down into the half-empty snifter of liquor and thoughtfully swirled the amber liquid around. He was a man of action, not inclined to wait around for a bunch of bureaucrats and their reams of paperwork. But Eric had a point. What difference would a day or so make? And in the meantime, they could study the survey results further, and possible go over the new information they had obtained from the oil company. The new results from the seismic survey had been provocative to say the least, turning up vast underground chambers in the middle of the Nubian Desert, which were once thought to be rich repositories of oil. Further study, though, had determined that the pockets were not liquid-filled, but rather, empty. And strangely enough, they were too regularly shaped and uniform to suggest anything other than their being man-made, not a work of nature. All of this implied, improbable though it was, that under the sands of the desert lay an immense man-made subterranean cave, or structure of some sort, that had somehow sunk beneath the shifting surface of the sand, or been covered up somehow, by some massive sandstorm or other cataclysm. The Sudanese were disappointed, to say the least, in not having won the petroleum lottery, but were making up for it to some degree in cashing in on the notoriety and fortune of sitting on what was potentially the archaeological find of the century.

* * *

Little was known about the lost Oasis of Ahm Shere, except for the disjointed bits and pieces that had been passed down in legend and stories dating back to the days of the Old Kingdom. In the glory days of archaeology, the late 1800s and early 1900s, and earlier, as well (Roman emperors were said to have sent parties searching for the place) those legends had led many to mount well-financed expeditions into the arid regions south of Egypt—into what was today known as Sudan, Eritrea and Ethiopia. The political climate back then was much more receptive to scientific expeditions, as well, with much of that area under British (or Italian, in the case of Eritrea) colonial rule and the rest being, for the most part, nothing more than wilderness. Today, the area was a hotbed of political unrest, with Eritrea finally having gained independence from Ethiopia in 1993 but still experiencing growing pains and occasional conflicts with its neighbors. Sudan was even more difficult for Americans to freely travel within, it being considered one of the centers of operations for international terrorists. Americans were not well tolerated in the Islamic Sudan even before the 1998 bombings in Khartoum, but after that, it became outright dangerous. 

Still, Ahm Shere was one of the crown jewels of archaeology, and was to Egyptologists what the Ark of the Covenant was to biblical archaeologists, what El Dorado was to Latin American archaeologists and what Atlantis was to almost everyone else. And, at least according to a few cryptic passages included in the memoirs of one of the renowned Egyptologists of the first part of the twentieth century, Evelyn Carnahan O'Connell, there was some evidence that Ahm Shere really did exist, buried in the sands of the desert somewhere in the arid plateaus of Sudan, just north of the canyon-riddled highlands cut through by the Blue Nile.

Ms. O'Connell, of course, never really came right out and said that she had found Ahm Shere, or that she had heard of any expedition that had successfully discovered it, but she had said enough about it, with enough detail, and recounted enough about the legend of the Scorpion King, to suggest that she knew more about it than most of her contemporaries. In addition to that, there was also the bequest that her brother, Jonathan Carnahan, made to the British Museum in his will, probated after his death in the mid-1980s, of the obscenely huge diamond that was, oddly enough, shaped like the capstone for a pyramid. Legend, of course, held that the Oasis of Ahm Shere contained a golden pyramid topped by a huge diamond. No verifiable history accompanied the post-humous gift from Mr. Carnahan, but rumor abounded, none the least of which was why, in all his years, the old gentleman had never sold, or tried to sell, the huge gemstone. Perhaps, it was rumored, he kept the stone simply because he'd never met anyone with enough cash to offer him in trade, or perhaps he kept it because no one would ever believe how he really came to own it, or that it was really his.

In his later years, while living in a nursing home in the British countryside, Jonathan had been given to telling strange, rambling stories about his youthful adventures with his sister, Evy, and her husband, Rick O'Connell. No one ever paid much attention to these stories, since they contained such unlikely scenarios as reincarnated mummies, ancient curses and giant half-human/half-canine warriors made out of sand. His care-takers chalked his vivid storytelling sessions up to progressive senile dementia and a life spent accompanying his sister about in the wilds of the Egyptian desert, digging about in the sand for old chunks of pottery and desiccated cats wrapped in old linen. There was certainly no reason to believe any of his wild ramblings.

Ahm Shere, though, and the legends that accompanied it, continued to intrigue Egyptologists down through the decades, and its discovery had, in fact, become the life's work of Eliana's father. He had spent his life gathering and organizing the legends concerning Ahm Shere and the Scorpion King, and was considered by most archeologists to be the unquestioned expert on the subject. He had long ago narrowed down the likely locations of the Oasis to the Nubian desert of southern Sudan, but the unrest and distrust between the Sudanese and American governments had never made an official expedition possible, or even likely. Launching such a campaign of discovery had always been one of John Bernstein's fondest dreams, but he had almost begun to think that he'd never live to see it realized. Until now. Or, rather, until six months ago, when the results of that oil-financed geological survey had the Sudanese government scurrying to find anyone who could possibly help them cash in on this newest national resource. That scurrying had led them, reluctantly, for he was, after all, American, to John Bernstein, Professor of Egyptology at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. And Professor Bernstein, now camped on the Nubian Desert, was about to realize his lifelong dream. He was sure of it; he could feel it in his bones, in every instinct that he possessed. They were sitting on top of the culmination of his entire life's work, and he would give almost anything he possessed to make sure that his lifelong dream was realized, and realized soon.

* * *

"Turning in, Dad?" Eliana called, as she walked past. She noticed that the campfire argument, which had been gaining steam when she passed by before, had now subsided, and most of the participants had made their way back to their tents. 

"Yes, Ellie. Eric has convinced me to wait until the Sudanese grace us with their presence before beginning the excavation," he sighed, standing up. It had been a long day, and was looking like it would turn into a long week.

"Hang in there, Dad—you'll get to start picking through the desert soon enough," laughed Eliana. She walked over to her father and put her arm around his waist. "Come on, walk me to the tents—you'll feel better once you surround yourself with your maps and history books."

Bernstein hugged his daughter and put a companionable arm around her shoulders as they walked the short distance to her tent. She had always been one to look at the bright side of things—he wished he could be so optimistic. Delay just seemed like a waste, at this point.

"Well, we're here, anyway, aren't we, Eliana? And that itself is a major accomplishment, considering how unwelcoming the Middle East is to Americans these days." Reaching out, he opened the zippered flap to her tent and held it open for her. As she walked past, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and squeezed his arm.

"Don't feel too bad, Dad. We're here, we're ready to start whenever we get the official go ahead, and we really haven't wasted that much time. Really, it's only the beginning…"

Seeing that his daughter was safely in her tent for the night, Bernstein shook his head and shrugged. "We'll see," he said, as he walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

_The shadows of history I smash to pieces. I change and change and change. I am the things left undone, words unsaid, hearts untouched, seeds unplanted. Look, at the shadow against the wall. It moves as you do. Its hands are yours. Clap them. Stamp your feet. Make your shadow dance. Is the dark all you have to fear?_

_Dreams. Dreams. All are dreams._

_--Excerpt from "The Family", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

The dream came to her soon after she fell asleep, as it had every night since her arrival. Eliana moaned, drawing the blanket up further around her shoulders.

It began the same way it always did, with just a shadow of an image forming in her mind—she was standing on a balcony, overlooking an ancient city, except that the city didn't look ancient; rather, it looked brand new, and bustling with the life force that only a vibrant, growing city exudes. It was evening, and while the moon and stars were out and giving light to the night sky, there were still a number of people out on the city thoroughfares, and even the occasional chariot thundered noisily by. Forsaking the balcony, Eliana turned and entered the room behind her—a sumptuously appointed room, one that bespoke enormous wealth and status. It was her chamber, she knew, but didn't quite know how she came to that knowledge. For being such a vivid dream, more of a vision, really, if one thought about it, it felt strange. It was almost as though she were really there, within the dream, rather than experiencing it through the hazy otherworldliness that usually accompanies the dream experience.

Looking down, it occurred to her that in this dream, she had conjured up a new body for herself, as well as new accommodations. Her skin was darker than its usual tanned, but fair tone; she was taller, as well, and certainly more voluptuously endowed (_Well, that's an improvement, at least,_ she chuckled to herself). Picking up a strand of her hair, she noted the thick, glossy ebony of it—quite a departure from her real, wavy, auburn locks. And yet, she felt at home in this body, as if she and it were old acquaintances, getting to know each other again after a long separation. She'd bet that if she had a mirror at her disposal, she would find that her face was no longer the one she recognized as her own, either; instead, she would be staring at some different, exotic, but hauntingly familiar visage that she knew wasn't her own, but still recognized in some primal way. The robe she was wearing was odd, too, at least for Eliana—a flowing, diaphanous garment made out of almost transparent scarlet silk that moved sinuously with her as she walked about the room, molding itself sleekly to her curves when she stopped.

Leaving off her musings over her changed appearance, Eliana resumed her explorations of the room. It was beautifully appointed, decorated in rich, vibrant jewel tones with gold accents. Ornate statues sat on marble pedestals, icons and carvings adorned the walls, and the air was subtly scented with a spicy musk fragrance. Against one wall of the room, what was obviously the sleeping area drew her attention. A mass of silk curtains and pillows, the bed was not raised far from the floor, but if appearances were to be believed, Eliana thought that this was probably the most comfortable place she would ever sleep in. Not, she thought wryly, that this was a bed that looked like it had been made for sleeping. Rather, it looked as though it had been designed to call into reality every sexual fantasy a girl ever had. It was definitely a bed for making love.

Eliana's musings were cut short by the sound of the door being quietly opened and just as quietly shut, and the whispered sound of sandaled feet crossing the room. Turning, she expected to see a servant, or a slave, or…certainly not what she saw. She caught her breath. Walking towards her was the most breathtakingly stunning, dangerously handsome man she had ever seen. Easily over six feet tall, with well-defined yet subtle musculature, he exuded animal grace and magnetism. He seemed powerful, too, but the power he possessed was not that of weapons and armament, but the more subtle power of presence and intellect. How she knew that, Eliana hadn't a clue, but she was as certain of it as she was certain of her own name. This man's very being bespoke power carefully and relentlessly controlled and channeled.

His long stride carried him quickly across the room, causing his black robe to billow out behind him. Eliana, having grown up in the home of an Egyptologist, recognized his garments as the trappings of a priest, from the scarab pectoral he wore to the fine white linen of his loincloth, visible through the open front of the robe. As was the custom among priests of ancient Egypt, his head was shaved, and likewise, the rest of his body was hairless as well. Though it was a custom at odds with what Eliana was used to, she found that it didn't detract from his masculinity at all—rather, he appeared as glorious as a pagan god, a perfect bronzed sculpture somehow miraculously come to life. As he closed the distance between them, she saw that the robe he wore was of the finest ebony silk, shot through with strands of purest gold. But it was his eyes that held her—eyes that gleamed a warm, rich, golden brown, eyes that danced with pleasure as he neared her, eyes that trapped her very soul and seemed to cause her heart to stop in mid-beat. _Breathe, Eliana, breathe,_ she reminded herself, as she mentally shook her head to clear the trance that just watching him walk across the room had induced in her. If watching him _walk_ was this mesmerizing, whatever would happen if he touched her…

Coming to a halt not more than eighteen inches from her, the priest smiled down at Eliana, a small, sardonic twist of his full lips that could have been mocking, had it not been warmed by the gleam of affection in his eyes, and the warmth of the words he spoke.

"You appear shocked, my love," he teased. "Did I not tell you that I would come to you this evening?"

Lifting his hand, the priest reached towards her face. Eliana reflexively closed her eyes, expecting to feel the warmth of his hand against her cheek. When the expected contact did not come, she opened them again, only to see him tracing some gesture in the air in front of her. It was curious, she thought—a gesture that looked almost like a caress, but didn't come close to touching. A simple arc, traced in the air in front of her face, but for all its lack of bodily contact, one of the most surprisingly erotic gestures she had ever witnessed.

Sensing that he was waiting for her to do something, respond in some way, Eliana simply copied the gesture he had made, caressing the air in front of him in a similar fashion, hoping that she had done it correctly. Apparently she had, as his smile grew broader, and he captured her hand between both of his. His grip was warm, and strong, and surprisingly powerful, and the feel of his long, elegant fingers enchanted Eliana as they caressed and massaged hers.

Capturing her other hand, he lowered his head and pressed warm, soft lips to the palm of each in a gentle kiss. They stood like that for endless moments, Eliana with her hands imprisoned, totally enchanted and holding her breath for fear of spoiling the moment, and the priest, who seemed simply to be enjoying the nearness of her and the feel of her palm beneath his lips. In the end, it was he who ended the caress, lifting her hands and placing them against his smooth, well-muscled chest, while he, in turn, ran his strong, warm hands up her arms, pausing briefly to massage her shoulders. With the smallest of tugs, he gently pulled her towards him and erased the distance between them to the merest whisper of space.

Looking up, Eliana saw several emotions flicker through his eyes, in quick succession—passion, longing, tenderness, and lastly, a lingering sadness.

"It has been too long since we have been together, my love," he said, his thumbs moving in slow, smooth circles on her upper arms.

His voice was a rich, deep baritone that sent shivers coursing down Eliana's spine. Its pitch was deep, lovely, almost musical in its intonation and cadence, and he was speaking a language that she knew to be different than her native English; different even than the other languages she was fluent in. She knew the language, knew the words he was speaking to her, but what was it? She couldn't put her finger on it, but she knew the words…It was almost as if she hadn't heard the language actually being _spoken_ before, just knew what they were in an academic sort of way, as if she were reading them, or...

That was it! Suddenly, Eliana's mind worked out the answer to the puzzle—Egyptian! Ancient Egyptian, specifically, and the difference it made to actually hear the words being spoken, rather than simply reading them off dry, old papyrus was amazing! The linguist in her had a thousand questions, but before she could give voice to even one, the priest pulled her to him completely and lowered his lips to hers, and any thoughts she might have entertained about a lesson in Ancient Egyptian winged away as quickly as they had come.

The feel of those warm, full lips moving over hers drove every bit of rational thought out of Eliana's mind, and before she even stopped to think about it, she had twined her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. His tongue teased the corners of her mouth and his teeth nipped at her full lower lip, and all the while his hands were sliding sensuously over the silk-covered planes of her back and hips. She could feel every inch of his body pressed against hers, from the well-muscled expanse of his chest to the rock hard columns of his thighs, to the hard ridge of his desire, straining towards her through the linen of his garment and the silk of hers. Wordlessly, recognizing her hunger, he deepened the kiss, forcing her lips open and driving his tongue inside her mouth to mate with hers. His tongue swirled around hers, exploring the contours of her mouth, her teeth, the inside of her lips. It mimicked the act of sex itself, plunging deep, then withdrawing, only to thrust inside once again. Eliana had never been kissed like this before in her life, yet she responded to this man's kiss like her soul had always known his touch and she answered his possession like too dry kindling in the presence of a lighted match—she simply went up in flames.

She groaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his hands still on their mission of exploration over her body. Roaming freely, they molded her flesh through the silk of her robe, moving up and around from her back to her ribs, and finally, finally, he moved them to cup her breasts through the sheer fabric of her robe. Eliana pressed herself into him, her breasts filling his hands, her hips and legs moving against him in an age-old message of invitation, which he was only too happy to accept.

His thumbs made slow, erotic circles on the sensitive tips of her breasts, her nipples hard and swollen and aching for him. The slow, massaging rhythm of his hands was in harmony with the movement of his mouth on hers, and Eliana felt heat pooling in her, making her legs weak, her skin hot, and her body throb for fulfillment.

Her hands, too, moved over him, learning the breadth and strength of his shoulders, the sinewy hardness of his upper arms, the smoothness of his strongly muscled chest. His skin was warm to the touch, she could feel his heart beating, hard and fast, and she gloried in the way her touch was affecting him. She wanted to touch him everywhere, as he was touching her, to build in him the raging fire of desire that he was building in her.

Breaking the kiss, the priest lifted his head away from her and looked down into her eyes, his own blazing with a fierceness that should have frightened her, but instead made her even hungrier for his touch. His eyes never leaving hers, he moved his hands to the fastening of her robe, untying it and letting it fall loose around her. She felt the silk of the garment slide down over her shoulders, down her arms, and finally slip the rest of the way down her body, to puddle around her feet on the floor. She raised her own hands to his shoulders, pushing the gold-threaded garment he wore out of her way, and pressing her lips to the golden expanse of skin she had bared. Looking up, she smiled at him, and saw his eyes blaze with desire.

He made a growling sound, deep in his throat, and before she knew what had happened, he had swung her up into his arms and was carrying her towards the cushioned softness of the bed. Her arms looped around the strong column of his neck, she watched with heavy-lidded eyes as he gently laid her down among the linen sheets and silk pillows, and stripped off his linen loincloth. As he bared himself to her, Eliana's eyes widened in shocked appreciation for how compellingly handsome he was. His body was tall and lean, but strong and well proportioned, with broad shoulders tapering to a trim abdomen, narrow hips and long, well-muscled legs. His skin was a golden tan, smooth-textured and infinitely touchable—and how she longed to touch every inch of him! Clothed, he was breathtaking, mesmerizing, but naked, he was the image of a god come to life. She couldn't take her eyes off him.

Arching one eyebrow and smiling that small, sardonic smile, which Eliana was coming to realize was a trademark expression of his, the priest knelt down on the bed beside her.

"I trust that everything is to your liking?"

She laughed, appreciating the slightly mocking and ribald humor, but the laughter died in her throat when she saw his eyes grow serious and darken with unquenched passion. Bending his head, he trailed kisses from the corner of her mouth over the line of her jaw and down the length of her neck, moving inexorably closer to her breasts. Eliana whimpered, her hands cradling the nape of his neck, urging him towards his destination. She would die if he didn't touch her soon, simply die…

The door swung open with a crash, and the sound of hurried footsteps crossed the room. Looking up, Eliana saw a gold-painted priest, winded and obviously frightened out of his wits, racing towards them. When the intruder finally realized where the room's inhabitants were, and what they were doing, his steps faltered, and he had the grace to look mortified. He was undeterred however, and rather than leaving, simply turned his back to the bed and its occupants.

"My lord, come quickly," the priest panted. "Seti has returned, and will be here any moment! You must leave at once!"

Cursing, Eliana's would-be lover sprang from the bed, quickly gathering his discarded clothes. His brow was furrowed in furious anger, and his motions as he quickly dressed were a study in barely controlled rage. Eliana simply lay there, not knowing who Seti was or why his impending arrival should cause such alarm. Surely they couldn't be referring to Seti, as in _Pharaoh_ Seti, could they?

Glancing back over his shoulder to where she still lay, her priest cursed again. Waving off his underling, who had obviously been standing guard at the door, he bent to retrieve Eliana's robe from the floor, and hurriedly approached the bed. Gently, he handed her the garment. His face was no longer drawn in lines of anger, but now reflected only frustration and thwarted desire as he once more knelt beside her on the bed.

"You must hurry, my love, and ready yourself. Seti has returned from Karnak and you will no doubt be called to him this evening." He grimaced, obviously frustrated that he could do nothing to change this development, and her heart went out to him. Reaching over, she gently placed her hand over his clenched fist.

"It is all right," she said, and a part of her mind was amazed to discover that she, too, was speaking in the melodic language of the Old Kingdom. "You must leave now, though."

Bowing his head in frustration, the priest sighed. "I know I must, but I had hoped…"

"It matters not what we had hoped, my love," she answered. "You must leave…"

The priest gave her a long, measuring look, and then crushed her to him, plundering her mouth in a kiss of fierce hunger and furious passion. Releasing her at last, he gazed at her again, then softly sighed. With a look of frustrated helplessness on his handsome face, he gently traced that curious, caressing gesture again, then he stood up, turned and strode swiftly from the room, following in the wake left by their hastily retreating would-be guard.

* * *

Eliana woke with a start, sweating and frightened. Glancing around to reassure herself that she was, indeed, still within her own tent, which was still within her father's encampment, she felt her breathing finally slow and her racing heart calm. Why? Why had she dreamt again of that man, that priest? Every night since she had arrived at this site, she had dreamt of him. The setting was always just a little different, and the situation always somewhat changed, but the man was eternally, unfailingly, the same. If she closed her eyes, she could still picture his face, the handsome features, the warm, intelligent eyes, and that haunting, mocking half-smile of his. Hell, she didn't even have to close her eyes to call up the image. She was beginning to know it as well as her own.

She knew that she had never met him before, or anyone like him. _Now that's obvious,_ she thought, with a hint of self-mockery. _I don't travel in the same circles, or eras, as ancient Egyptian priests._ But the feelings that these dreams, this man, aroused in her, resonated somehow within Eliana's soul. Somehow, he seemed more than a dream, more than simply a figment of her imagination. The dreams seemed more than dreams, too, more like…memories.

Scoffing, Eliana discarded that fanciful notion. She was a scientist. She didn't believe in recovered memories from past lives, even though such thinking was all the rage among the New Age circles back home. She was here to do a job. It would last for several months, perhaps, and then she'd be going home, back to America, back to her work there. The only men she would likely encounter out here would be scruffy, sweating ones who were either being paid to dig in the sand or were paying people to dig in the sand; or maybe, if she was really lucky, she'd even run into a handful of Middle Eastern bureaucrats. She certainly wouldn't be meeting up with anyone like the man in her dreams.

Rolling over and pulling the blankets around her to protect from the cold night air, Eliana went back to sleep, dismissing the recurring dreams as sheer fancy, brought on by the exotic location and the sheer boredom of sitting around waiting for the dig to get started.

In the sand far out in the desert, near the site where the crew would start digging, if the Sudanese ever arrived, a scorpion emerged from a tiny hole in the desert floor and scuttled off across the sand in search of prey.

* * *

Agony. Grief. Despair. Endless loss. The pain was unremitting, unrelenting, unforgiving. It had gone on for an eternity, and would last for an eternity still. And yet it was less a physical pain than a spiritual one, since here in the fiery pit of Anubis, physical form lost its meaning and the soul was the only currency of note. Imhotep writhed and fought against the demons that held him, sometimes breaking free of their clawed grasp and managing to run from them for a moment, but never succeeding for long. Indeed, it was almost as though they toyed with him, played this infernal game of cat-and-mouse, laughing and feeding off his agony, and the agony of the others who, like him, had somehow incurred the wrath of the gods and been consigned to this pit of horrors.

Imhotep had been there for endless years; indeed, he had lost track of how long he had been tortured in this hell, for, like flesh, time had no meaning here. It could have been minutes, it could have been millennia—he had no way of knowing, and in truth, it did not matter, as he knew, he felt in his soul, that this would be his only remaining experience for all of eternity.

Agonizing and unceasing though the mental and spiritual torture was, he still had fleeting moments of near lucidity, milliseconds during which his tormented mind and soul would remember bits and pieces of his life before—before this hell, before his damnation, before the Hom-Dai had destroyed whatever chance he might have had to experience the eternal peace he knew awaited the souls of the worthy departed.

His memories were generally too fleeting to be categorized as true flashbacks to concrete events and people—they were more impressions of feelings and thoughts, once felt by him in his human form, than they were anything else. The earliest memories, if they could be called that, were ones of pride and honor, ambition and privilege, the quest for knowledge and power, the bearing of a yoke of great responsibility, and the memories of a life dedicated to a higher calling.

There were other memories of this time, too—again, more impressions than distinct pictures, but still just as potent—the touch of a soft hand, the feel of gentle lips under his, the smell of spice-perfumed skin, the knowledge of a true and eternal love; but along with these came other, darker images—the desperation of hopeless, impotent rage against forces too strong to be challenged openly, the sting of deceit, his own and that of the others he had manipulated into being his accomplices, the guilt of his utter betrayal of a society and an individual that had once been held in high regard, the shame of abandoning ideals and principles once all-important for something else, something more important, but less lofty. Something—no, someone—who had become everything to him, someone more important than his loyalty to his pharaoh, his value for his life, his reverence for his gods, his care for his own soul.

And then, after these, memories of his damnation, when the Med Jai had cursed him with the most unspeakable malediction of their time, the Hom Dai—when he had been physically maimed, imprisoned with thousands of vicious, voracious, flesh-eating scarabs, brutally buried alive, his name and deeds wiped from the books of history and time, and ultimately forged into He Who Shall Not Be Named—a living abomination, a plague upon the earth, a walking reminder of the hell that awaits the damned.

He had been awakened twice from that undeath—the first time he remembered feeling boundless rage, grinding loneliness and a desperation borne of three thousand years of helplessness. He remembered, too, the power he commanded—the power to call forth the elements, to bend the very sands of the desert to his will. Not that it had mattered, for overshadowing it all was a sense of loss, of failure to achieve whatever it was he had been attempting. He had no distinct memory of what that was, but it had been his driving force—the one thing that had kept him somewhat sane during the centuries of his confinement and torture. And he had failed, been consigned once again to the torment of the Hom Dai.

The next time he was called from undeath, he knew that somehow, during the interval between his first awakening and this one, that his goal had somehow been achieved, his desire realized, but not by his hand. He remembered looking down into eyes that shone with love for him, of feeling the burn of requited passion, the joy of love freely given and wholeheartedly returned. And yet, there was the ever present evil taint of what he had become, not a man at all, but some sort of monster, with still-potent powers but a blackened, cursed soul. And she—she was still his love, but somehow not so—and at the end, she had betrayed him utterly.

The sting of that betrayal, her denial of him when he had been stripped of his power, her turning her back on what they had once shared, her refusal to help him when he had freely given his life—no, his soul—up for her, that pain he still carried with him, as fresh as the day it had happened. At times, he believed that the demons in this pit happily allowed memories such as those, as they were as useful for tools of torment as were the demons' own claws and fangs.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

_I smell a change coming, a shape turning leaves in the wind._

_--Excerpt from "The Bath", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

Eliana wrapped her hands around her mug and sipped the too-strong coffee, tiredly trying to wake up after another almost sleepless night. She had gotten to bed late, after helping her father and Eric see to last minute preparations that had to be complete before this morning, when the dig would officially start. Then, the dreams had started again, the same as before, the same as every night. They had kept her tossing and turning until well past midnight, and now here she sat, in the dark pre-dawn, waiting to spend the day under the burning sun, raking through scalding sand. All she wanted was to crawl back into her tent, burrow into her sleeping bag and stay there for a week. Alone. Asleep. Dreamless. And yet…

She sighed, raking her fingers through her shoulder length hair. _Stop it_, she scolded herself; disgusted that not only was her priest (as she had come to think of him) invading her dreams and stealing her sleep, but he was now lurking about in her mind during her waking hours, too. Normally, Eliana was almost single-mindedly focused on her job, but lately, she'd started feeling almost scatterbrained. Too frequently during the last few days, she'd found her thoughts turning to the dreams she'd had the night before, and the man who seemed to be haunting her subconscious.

"You're looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning, El," Eric teased, as he sat down across from her at the rickety table. "Not getting enough beauty sleep, are we?" At her scowl, he laughed. "Or are you just thinking about how much fun it will be now that our welcoming committee has finally arrived?"

At that, Eliana rolled her eyes and grimaced. The Sudanese had arrived yesterday, a solid week later than expected. At midafternoon, the team had heard the helicopter coming in from Khartoum, to the west, and had watched while it dropped out of the heavens and unloaded its cargo. The delegation of six officials had deplaned like a swarm of briefcase-carrying locusts, buzzing about and attempting to look important as the pilot did a quick equipment check before heading back. Eliana suspected he was glad to see the last of them.

The supposed leader of the delegation, Bursuq Mousa, a short, squat, bearded man with a large belly and a larger ego, had been the first to approach the waiting site team. Eliana shook her head, remembering with some amusement how the rotund Mousa had immediately strutted over to her tall, distinguished-looking father and imperiously introduced himself, declaring that he and his staff would require the best of accommodations, as they would be staying on for the duration of the dig. Her father had simply nodded and pointed to one of the rather spartan tents, telling the indignant little man that "the sand is better over in that one." Not a very auspicious beginning, and it had gone downhill from there.

"So how'd they like Sabir's cooking?" Eric asked, reaching for one of the large, ceramic mugs.

"Didn't say too much about it, actually. They grabbed their plates and ran off to the tent to have some kind of emergency meeting, I guess. Don't think they were too pleased that Dad had gotten so much of the prelim excavation work done already." Reaching over, Eliana grabbed the coffee pot and filled Eric's mug with the hot, thick brew that she'd been drinking. "Here—this is more grounds than coffee, but it'll wake you up."

"I warned him about that," Eric muttered, taking a swallow of the bitter liquid. "He was bound and determined to get as much as possible done before they arrived, and I can't say that I blame him. But I agree—they weren't too happy to see that the grid was up and marked, and that all we hadn't done was to actually start excavating."

Eliana shrugged. "Dad's never been one to follow the letter of the law, you know. If he'd waited for them to get here before setting up the grid, we would have lost weeks." She knew from the past digs she'd been on that a lot of preliminary work went into setting up a site, even after the geological team had finished doing a sediment stratification survey of the area. The information gathered from that data would determine soil layering patterns in the site, which would later help in classifying the relative age of recovered artifacts.

"So what'd you think of Mousa's little group?" Eric asked her. Eliana laughed.

After his ignominous introduction, Mousa had stomped off towards his new, obviously sub-par lodgings, snapping his fingers imperiously. Three others of the group had immediately scurried off after him, grabbing their luggage and almost running to catch up with him. They didn't reappear until dinner, when the dig team had learned that those three were Mousa's personal staff members. Three more cringing, subservient yes-men would have been hard to find. The men had huddled together over the food, talking in whispers and glancing furtively between Mousa and the dig team, as though expecting to be reprimanded at any moment for eating too much, or taking up too much space, or breathing too much of the communal air. They had taken some food, nervously fidgeted while Mousa finished generously heaping his plate full, and then scuttled off behind him. Apparently, Mousa didn't find it necessary to fraternize with his country's American and Egyptian guests, even during meals.

The other two Sudanese, not part of Mousa's personal staff, had eaten with the crew, talking quietly and asking questions about the dig that would start the next day. Muhammad Hassan, a tall, thin man with deep-set obsidian eyes and a stern, unsmiling countenance, had come at Mousa's specific request, in the interest of Sudanese national security. A high-ranking officer in the Sudanese military, Hassan had spent twenty years rising through the ranks of the counter-intelligence division. He was there, presumably, to keep an eye on the Americans, and make sure that they didn't run off with any of the treasures that would surely turn up.

The last of the six, Rais Azziz, was the only one to really make any effort to welcome the foreigners to Sudan. A member of the diplomatic corps, Azziz was a gregarious man, of average height and looks, but well schooled in American customs and possessing an easy charm. He spoke flawless English and spent the supper hour telling the dig team hilarious stories about his days as an ambassador to Great Britain. On the whole, he was likeable and friendly, as different from the other Sudanese as day was from night.

"I think that they had better stay out of Dad's way, and not mess with his treasure hunt, or there'll be hell to pay. They've already kept him waiting longer than he's ever been willing to wait before."

Nodding in agreement, Eric took another swig of his coffee and stared out into the desert.

* * *

"I thought we'd start digging in several areas at once," Professor Bernstein said, glancing over at Akil Hamid, his friend and counterpart at the Cairo museum. "Since the underground structure seems to fan out from a central location, it seems obvious to start there, and that's where I want to put Eric and the graduate students. They'll have the experience to know if they find something important.

"But I'd also like to get going on some of these outlying areas," he said, pointing out several locations on the map of the site. "Eliana can take some of the undergrads out there, and see what turns up. Good practice for them, and Eliana can fill them in on some of the history of the site, while they're working. She's been on enough digs with me to know what to do if something turns up."

"I quite agree, John," nodded his colleague. "Cover territory more quickly, and all that." Hamid had attended university in England, and his voice, when speaking English, still reflected a pronounced British inflection and phrasing.

Bernstein had been up long before sunrise, his excitement building with each passing minute. The damn pencil-pushing bureaucrats had finally shown up, and had been just as irritatingly incompetent as he'd expected. Bernstein didn't suffer fools easily, and the majority of the Sudanese had been just that. He, like Eliana and Eric, had liked Azziz, and he was, at least for now, cautiously neutral about Hassan. The other four, though, including—no, especially, he amended—that pompous little twit, Mousa, were just a damned nuisance.

After setting them straight about the fact that he had followed their ridiculous and overly rigid antiquities rules to the letter, if not the spirit, he had then informed them that he intended to start working, with or without their blessing and approval. They had grudgingly agreed that, yes, the Americans had followed the rules sufficiently; and that yes, their permits were fully compliant; and so, yes, they could get on with the dig as soon as possible. After that, he had had little to do with them.

He was still irritated and angry with having been kept waiting for so long, but he was content, for now, that they were going on about their business, and letting him get on with his. They could have their secret meetings and they could fill out their reams of paperwork, and as long as they left him alone, he would smile and be somewhat agreeable.

Gathering up the map, several files and his large knapsack, Bernstein suddenly frowned, remembering something that he'd meant to ask his associate before they left this morning.

"Akil, did you get a chance to look over the details of the stratification column information the geological team sent over?"

"Ah, yes, John! Most interesting information, wouldn't you say? Most interesting…" Hamid bobbed his head up and down several times as he spoke, to emphasize the point he was making. "I found it quite curious, to say the least, but I'm sure there must be some logical explanation, or perhaps the team was simply mistaken…"

"That's your take on it, then? You think that the team might have made an error?"

"What other reason could there be?" Hamid shrugged.

"It's just rather puzzling, is all. So much so that I asked them to redo their initial findings. This report was actually the second one. It restated what they had found the first time."

"You mean the fact that the geologists are convinced that there ARE no layers?" the Egyptian man snorted.

"Indeed," confirmed Bernstein, frowning at the report, as if the answer would suddenly appear in large print that he had previously missed. "It's not unheard of for several areas of a particular site to initially appear layerless, or for the layers to be mixed up, somehow. But for a whole site to look that way…" He shook his head, obviously not willing to believe, either, that this information could be correct.

"It's like those sediment layers were just obliterated, somehow. Like someone stuck a giant vacuum into the damned desert, sucked everything up and then spit it out again."

* * *

While the sun was still well below the horizon, and shadows still blanketed the camp, a solitary figure moved stealthily behind the row of tents. Moving quietly and keeping low to the ground, every once in a while peering back over his shoulder, the man made his way out into the open desert just beyond the encampment. Finally reaching the sheltering cover of a large dune of sand, he crouched down and rummaged in the leather satchel he had dragged with him.

From within, he removed a black plastic case. Again, he looked around furtively to make sure he hadn't been followed. Apparently reassured, he opened the case and began to assemble the little miracle of technology contained inside.

The satellite phone was fairly small, not much larger than a laptop PC. The man placed the phone on a flat rock, connecting it to the compact receiving dish with a short cord. Fingers moving rapidly over the keypad, he punched in a series of codes, then slowly rotated the dish until it picked up the signal from the satellite, moving in geosynchronous orbit somewhere high above. As soon as the signal was confirmed by a steady beeping, he turned his attention back to the keypad, punching in another series of numbers, this one connecting him to a hotel suite in Tripoli.

"Speak," commanded the voice on the line, in perfect Arabic. "Do you have news?"

"Yes," the man answered, also in Arabic, again looking over his shoulder for eavesdroppers. "They are about to begin excavating. I knew you would wish to have this information. I will not be able to risk contact again for some time. But rest assured, the moment something is discovered, I will transmit the information to you."

"See that you do," the voice snapped. "Until then, watch every move the Americans make. We cannot afford to miss any opportunity…"

"Do not worry, friend," the man soothed. "I am aware of the great honor it is for me to have been chosen for this mission. I will not fail you or our cause. The American infidels will be closely monitored, and I will inform you at once if they turn up anything that can be of use to us."

"Good. We will be waiting to hear from you, then." With that, the speaker in Tripoli abruptly broke the connection.

The man, his objective complete, disassembled the phone, packed it up in its carrying case, and cautiously crept back towards the camp, taking care not to be seen.

* * *

Unseen by the archaeological group in the valley below, five black-clad riders perched on their mounts atop the hillside high above. Silently, they watched as more and more of the excavation crew appeared from their tents and prepared for the day's work. The sun had not yet risen completely, so the group of horsemen appeared as nothing more than slightly darker silhouettes against the still dark sky.

"And so it begins, eh, friend?" one rider said to another.

The man to whom he spoke said nothing in return, simply staring down into the shadowed valley with a sober expression in his dark eyes. As he turned to look at the speaker, the tattoos painted in black across his high, well-defined cheekbones stood out sharply against his bronze skin. Lifting his arm in a silent command, he waited as a bird dropped, silently and gracefully, from the blue-black sky. The falcon flapped its wings once, then settled its feathers, perching majestically on the leather gauntlet protecting the man's forearm from the sharp talons.

"I must ask you to take Horus for me, brother," the falconer said, finally addressing the speaker. The man nodded, silently signaling his assent. The bird, intelligent eyes missing nothing, shifted position to more firmly grasp the leather shielding the man's arm.

"You will go, then?" the first man asked, nodding towards the valley floor.

"I must. They do not know what they are in danger of disturbing. I had thought Ahm Shere was safely buried, lost forever to mankind," he sighed. "But apparently, that is not so."

He turned again to look down into the valley. "If they should find either the book or the Creature, and somehow manage to…" he broke off abrubtly, shaking his head. "Well, that does not bear considering," he finished.

Nodding again, the first man acknowledged what had been said. Holding out his arm, he spoke a word, and the falcon hopped onto his gloved arm. Never once, though, did the bird's eyes leave its master.

The dark rider, now assured of the safety of his most treasured friend, touched his fingertips to his brow, bowing his head in a brief salute.

"I will send word if you are needed." He lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell, spurred his mount, and galloped away to the south, intending to circle the valley and come up to the camp from the opposite direction.

"May Allah go with you," his friend offered soberly.

Then he turned, signaled to the others, and they rode off to the northwest, disappearing back into the desert from which they had come.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_Stars fade like memory the instant before dawn. Low in the east, the sun appears golden as an opening eye. That which can be named must exist. That which is named can be written. That which is written will be remembered. That which is remembered lives._

_--Excerpt from "The Return", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

"It's been over a week! How can we not have found a single damn thing?" John Bernstein slammed the book he'd been leafing through down on the table in disgust. Frustration poured from him in angry waves. "It's like the whole area has been swept clean, for God's sake!"

"Yes, John, I agree—one would expect to have found something by now." Hamid said, tiredly sitting down across from his friend. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, which succeeded only in grinding sand deeper into the creases around them. He had just returned from the dig site for the midday meal and break and felt hot, gritty and disappointed. The team had been out there for eight days, painstakingly removing bucket after bucket of soil from the site, hoping that each time they sank their trowels into the sand that this would be the moment they'd make a find. So far, each trowel of soil had yielded only frustration.

Eric and his team of eight graduate students had cleared away at least four meters of soil from the areas they'd been assigned to excavate. Working from the center, they'd cleared about a twenty-eight square meter area, and had turned up exactly nothing. Eliana's team of five had fared no better—they had managed to dig down to a depth of about two-and-a half meters in each of the fifteen two meter by two meter square sections Bernstein had pointed out to them, but their labors had yielded the same nonexistent results.

Bernstein knew that something was there, at least in the area that Eric was responsible for—the geological survey results backed that up irrefutably. The question was, how far down did they need to go before striking pay dirt? There was a limit to how fast they could uncover the area, for they were limited in the range of tools they could use. Heavy equipment could move mountains of soil in a heartbeat, but using that kind of machinery was out of the question—it would tear up and destroy any small, fragile artifacts remaining near the surface. _Not that there seemed to be any of those,_ Bernstein thought in disgust. That left them with what they were already using—trowels, spades, and occasionally, hands. No, they couldn't go any faster, and that only added to his frustration.

"Are you still convinced that we're in the right spot, John?" his colleague queried. "I know what the survey showed, but perhaps if we moved a bit to one side or the other…"

"No. It's there." Bernstein scowled. "It's just farther down than we first thought. We'll stay right where we are." He picked up his book again, and submerged himself in his research, effectively dismissing what Hamid had suggested. There would be no changing his mind on this issue.

"Fine with me, friend," Hamid conceded. "You're the one organizing this party—you decide where to dig." With that, he stood up, walking over to the food boxes and rummaging around. He finally emerged from his foray into the supplies holding a large, red apple that he proceeded to polish on his sleeve. Biting into it, he sank back down into his chair.

Bernstein grunted, still immersed in the text he was reading. Not lifting his head, he inquired, "Are Ellie and Eric going to be breaking for lunch soon?"

"They were just wrapping things up when I left," Hamid answered, chewing on his apple. Juice from the fruit dribbled down his chin as he spoke. Wiping it off with the back of his hand, he added, "I believe Eliana wanted to finish removing a few more layers of soil before she stopped working."

"Good, good. Well, we'll have lunch when they get here, then." Bernstein paused. "Throw me one of those, will you?"

As Hamid stood again and turned to rummage through the supplies once more, he heard the sound of hoof beats drawing closer to the camp. Bernstein had apparently heard them, too, as he looked up from his work. Annoyance lined his face.

"Don't they know they're not supposed to ride the supply horses?"

"Uh, John, this isn't a supply horse." Hamid corrected, staring out at the horse and rider that were approaching. "I think you'd better come here. We have a visitor."

* * *

The rider approached the mess tent in the center of the camp with some caution. Although he was supremely confident in his ability to handle any sort of difficulty he might encounter, he would prefer that this first introduction be of a more genial nature. It would be better if these people considered him an ally, rather than a threat to their work.

He had been watching them work for the last several days, staying out of sight in the nearby desert and simply keeping an eye on the day-to-day operations of the camp. He closely monitored them over the course of their long, dusty workdays, which began well before sun up, and lasted well into the evening. He had noted their initial excitement when the dig first began, and he had recognized their growing frustration as their painstaking labor produced no results. While he was pleased that they had discovered nothing, he had come to the conclusion that they were a persistent people, and would simply continue with their work until their exertion was rewarded.

He knew what they were looking for, he knew where it could be found, and he knew that if they kept at their work, they would eventually find it. He knew also that chances were good that they would find a bit more than what they bargained for. And he could not allow that to happen. He was honor bound, by vows taken millennia ago by his forefathers and renewed again, not seventy years past, to guard what was hidden here. He would protect the secrets that lay buried in this desert with his life—and theirs, he added silently—if it came down to that. He knew that this group of modern-day explorers would have difficulty in believing what he sought to guard against—would in fact think him insane if they did know—but he also knew that guard against it he must, or all mankind would pay the price. And that price would be terrible.

To that end, he had decided that the time for secrecy and subterfuge had passed. He could no longer afford to idly observe and simply hope that they would give up their quest out of sheer frustration—he recognized that the time had come to take some action. He must reveal his presence to them, and somehow manage to infiltrate their group. Once he was no longer forced to conceal himself, he could take direct action to ensure that even if they did find the Oasis, its most dangerous secrets would remain hidden. How to do this most effectively was now the question he needed to answer.

He had thought, at first, to pass himself off as another government official, but had discarded that idea quickly when he realized that the real bureaucrats would see through that disguise immediately. Although they appeared somewhat dim, as a group, he had no doubt that they possessed the same shark-like survival skills as most bureaucrats. They wouldn't be content to let him saunter in and take a place in their little hierarchy. They'd call their cronies in Khartoum, check out his story, and eventually come up with the fact that he was an imposter. No, that would not do.

Finally, he had simply decided to ride into the camp openly, and persuade the excavation leaders to allow him to join their group as a hired laborer. That strategy worked well on several levels. For one, he'd be at the bottom of the pecking order, and therefore attract no undue attention. Who, after all, would care one way or another about the comings and goings of a paid laborer? Second, and perhaps most importantly, if he were able to actually help with the dig itself, he could be at the forefront of the work, and know immediately if anything dangerous was at hand.

* * *

"Now who the devil do you suppose that is?" Hamid wondered, watching as the rider approached.

"I'd say we're about to find out," Bernstein answered, joining his friend at the edge of the open-sided tent.

Reining in his mount, the rider stopped when he was perhaps six meters away from the two archaeologists. Gracefully swinging himself down from the saddle in a swirl of black robes, he landed lightly on the ground, and dropped the horse's reins. With a quiet word to the animal, he patted its powerful neck and turned to face the men. As he walked unhesitatingly toward them, they noticed the tattoos decorating his high, chiseled cheekbones and the black flowing garb and turban of a desert nomad.

"Can I help you?" Bernstein asked, walking towards him as the man approached. Something in his voice made the greeting sound less like an offer of assistance and more like an open challenge. Bernstein watched the man with narrowed eyes—something in the panther-like gait and the aura of restrained power surrounding the dark clad rider put his hackles up, making him feel threatened, in some vague, undefined way. Whatever it was, this instinctive wariness towards the stranger made him feel even more protective of the site and its elusive treasure than ever.

Stopping just short of the two men, the stranger recognized their wariness and held out his hands palms facing forward, in a gesture meant to sooth and allay their fears.

"Please," he said, his softly accented voice caressing the English word. "I come from a tribe to the north of here, and have come to offer my services to you." Seeing their looks of surprise, he continued.

"I have been observing your work for several days, and felt that you may have need for additional labor. Is this not true?" He stopped, gauging their reaction.

Bernstein exchanged a quick glance with Hamid. His friend almost imperceptibly shrugged, implying that he had no idea if the man was being honest, and additionally, had no clue as to whether they needed additional men at the site. Either way, he was obviously letting John handle this one on his own. Bernstein scowled, mentally cursing his friend for being so damned agreeable.

"What made you think that?" Bernstein questioned, somewhat disturbed that this man had, apparently, been skulking around the perimeter of the dig for days, without ever being noticed. Would they need to set up a rotating guard schedule, he wondered? Can't have people just wandering in from the desert, disturbing the site, and who knows what else, he thought.

"Your dig occupies a relatively large area," the man offered, keeping his tone soft and somewhat placating, in an effort to soothe and reassure. "You are removing a great deal of soil, and the laborers are required to carry it a great distance. I had hoped you might have use for a strong back and a pair of willing hands."

"We have a fair number of laborers already." Scowling, Bernstein hoped to discourage the man.

Undeterred, the man nodded, adding, "I saw that as well, but in my eagerness to obtain work, felt that you might be persuaded to hire one more."

He kept his eyes lowered respectfully, and his voice, deep and melodic, washed over them almost hypnotically. Almost imperceptibly, Bernstein felt his wariness lessen a bit. For all that he looked like a desert warrior straight out of _Arabian Nights,_ he supposed the man could be just what he said he was—some poor tribesman, needing to find work. Employment, he guessed, must be at a premium, out here in the desert. Still, something about the man bothered him—he didn't _seem_ to be poor, or uneducated, or of humble birth. Rather, he exuded the confidence and aplomb of a man who had seen much, and done much, and lived to tell about it. And there was also the fact that he spoke perfect, flawless English.

"Your English is quite good. Must be fairly well-educated, for a nomad."

"Thankfully, my paternal grandmother saw fit to have me educated in an American-run school in Cairo. She was possessed of a high regard for education, and felt that a man must be well-educated in the ways of the world if he is to find his place in it.

"She was a great woman," he added. Again, all that was true, and he was grateful for being spared telling another lie.

"So if you are well-educated, and have seen something of the world, what on earth are you doing out here, wanting to get paid a pittance to haul buckets of sand?" _Let him answer that one_, Bernstein thought, with some satisfaction.

"Regretfully, I have returned to my people at a time of great upheaval. They would not have me here, except for their great need. I must provide for those needs, as best I can, and I can best help them by offering to help you." _A small stretch of the truth_, he thought, _but worth it in the end._

"Need the work, do you?" Hamid chimed in, apparently ready now to cast his lot with the stranger. "Supporting a family, and all that? Must be a bit of hard work, out here in the desert."

The man seized on that. "You are correct," he agreed, bowing his head. "My family lives not far from here, in the desert, and I am here to see to their welfare." _And to yours also,_ he thought ironically.

"Well, what do you say, John?" Hamid had apparently changed his mind about staying out of the decision, and now seemed eager to have this man a part of the team.

Still dubious, Bernstein was nonetheless willing, for now at least, to give the man a chance to prove himself. Nodding, he offered his agreement.

"You can start this afternoon, after the meal. See to your animal, and put him in the enclosure over there," he instructed, pointing in the general direction of the fenced in, makeshift corral where the pack animals were kept. "You can sleep with the rest of the workers in the large tent at the back of the camp. There should be an empty locker in there for your things. Breakfast is an hour before sunup, we work until noon, break until three, and then work until sundown. You'll be paid on Fridays, with everyone else."

"I am in your debt," the man offered, bowing his head in acceptance.

"Welcome to the dig. By the way, I didn't catch your name…" Bernstein stepped closer to the man and offered his hand, to seal the agreement. The man lifted his head and looked at him, his dark eyes glinting in the sun. The hand he extended in return was strong, and calloused, and his grip was firm as he shook Bernstein's.

"My name is Ardeth," he offered. "Ardeth Bay."

* * *

Eliana straightened and stretched, placing her hands on her lower back and arching it to ease the kinks and sore spots. She had been working on one of the excavation grids since before sunrise, and she was tired, hot and dirty. Her clothes, acceptably clean this morning, were now caked with sweat and gritty with the accursed sand that nothing or no one could escape from out here.

Squinting into the bright sunlight, she looked over to where Eric was working, right in the center of the checkerboard that the dig site was fast becoming. While she and the students she worked with spent their days digging up patch after patch of dirt towards the outer edges of the site grid, Eric and his team plodded away at the very center of the grid for all they were worth, trying to expose whatever lay beneath.

In theory, a dig was meticulous and painstaking work, a delicate and often boring job of carefully uncovering artifact after artifact, gently brushing away the sand and exposing the treasure centimeter by centimeter. No artifact was removed from its resting place until the dirt had been completely brushed away and its exact location and positioning drawn in on the detailed maps of each layer of each square of the grid forming the site. Then, for good measure, the find was also photographed before being removed, tagged and bagged. After all that, it was gently carried back to the camp, where her father and Professor Hamid would thoroughly examine it. _Not that they'd been very busy examining anything yet,_ she thought to herself, grimacing.

Eliana bent at the waist, touching her toes and then straightening, slowly unbending her aching back and futilely swiping at the dust and grime covering her work pants.

"Hey, Eric!" she called. "You ready to head back for lunch?"

She saw him get to his feet, just as slowly and painfully as she had. Digs were hell on the back and legs. Looking at his watch, he turned towards her and nodded.

"Yup, we're ready over here. Let's go!" Turning back to his team, he spoke a few quiet words, and they began to gather their things and get ready to head in. Eliana, already having told her team to break for lunch, waited as Eric walked towards her. _Now there is a nice man_, she thought, wishing, not for the first time, that she could work up some interest or attraction towards him. Her father, certainly, would heartily approve of her becoming involved with Eric, and it would be convenient and easy to slip into some sort of relationship with him. Eric, in fact, had asked her out before, but she had demurred, unable to think of him in any but the most brotherly of terms, and unwilling to risk the complications that would surely arise from a failed romance with him. Since then, they'd fallen into a comfortable sort of friendship, and she was content with that. Nice though he was, and much as they had in common, she just didn't feel for him what she imagined she should feel for someone she became involved with. Unbidden, Eliana's mind conjured up the image of a pair of golden brown eyes, set in a smooth-shaven bronze face, and she shivered. _Nice, Eliana, _she thought._ You can obsess about a guy you've only dreamed about, but put a perfectly good one right in front of you, and he leaves you cold_. _What's wrong with this picture?_

Eric reached her side, and put a friendly hand on her neck, kneading the tight muscles. "Sore, are we?" he grinned, his blue eyes smiling down at her. Again, Eliana regretted that his touch did nothing more for her than make her sore muscles feel slightly better.

"No worse than you, old man," she teased, reminding him of the eight-year difference in their ages, and punched him in the shoulder.

Companionably, they walked back towards the camp, ready for a quick meal and some rest from the noontime heat. They covered the short distance quickly, the site itself located no more than a quarter mile from the camp. Eric excused himself as they approached the mess tent, wanting to run to his tent quickly and try to clean up a bit before lunch. _Good luck,_ Eliana thought, swiping again at the cloying layer of sand that covered every exposed inch of her. Not wanting to take the time trying to clean up, when she knew she'd just be covered with grit again as soon as they went back out this afternoon, Eliana settled for washing her hands quickly.

She entered the tent, looking around quickly to find her father. Locating him, she walked over towards him, but her steps slowed as she noticed the stranger standing with him. It was dark in the tent, and her eyes hadn't yet adjusted from the bright sunlight, so she couldn't see the man clearly, and even if she had, his back was turned to her so she wouldn't have been able to see his face. She could see, though, that he was tall, and lean, and that he was dressed from head to foot in some sort of black clothing that was, she supposed, suitable for the desert.

Coming closer, she slowed even more, and a strange feeling came over her, an almost light-headedly eerie feeling of déjà vu. A tight knot formed in her stomach, an almost painful feeling high up in her abdomen, and she pressed a closed fist against it to stop the hurt. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her breath was coming in short, quick bursts. Although she'd never been particularly prone to fainting, Eliana felt that if she didn't sit down quickly, she'd find herself becoming that way, and soon. She fought hard against the illogical desire that was quickly growing in her to turn and run, and forced her feet to carry her the rest of the way over to the men.

Catching sight of her, Bernstein put his hand on the man's arm, said a few words, and turned him towards Eliana, who was now standing about a meter away, behind and slightly to the right of the stranger. She was white as a ghost, and her green eyes were huge in her face as she watched the man turn to her. At first, his face held merely a look of well-mannered but unremarkable curiosity, and he extended a hand to politely greet her.

Gritting her teeth, she reached out a hand to grasp his. When their palms touched, Eliana swore that she felt a jolt through her whole body, and from the expression in his dark eyes, he felt it too. Fear coursed through her again, hot as fire and cold as ice at the same time. The man didn't release her hand, but instead, stood holding it tightly, his grip almost crushingly powerful. As she watched, mutely, a strange expression came over his darkly attractive features. An almost disbelieving frown crossed his face, and he scanned her features quickly, almost as if he recognized her, but wasn't sure where he'd seen her before.

As his eyes met hers again, she did stop breathing, and an even deeper primal fear coursed through her. If she could have forced her feet to work, she would have run as far and as fast as she could. As it was, though, her feet were rooted to the floor, and she could only watch, shaking, as he stared at her with the same look of dawning horror that she felt, which was ridiculous, since she had never seen the man before in her life. All the same, the pain in her stomach grew worse, and she knew that if she didn't sit down at once, her body would take over and sit down for her.

Bernstein, though, was blithely unaware of the undercurrents of tension stretching between the two as he introduced his most recent employee to his daughter.

"Eliana, I'd like you to meet the newest member of our team, Ardeth Bay. He'll be starting today. Ardeth, meet my daughter, Eliana." Bernstein looked at Eliana, expecting her to greet the new arrival with at least a word or two, in addition to the handshake she had already offered. But she was just standing there, looking for all the world as if she'd been suddenly struck dumb. And she wasn't looking too well, either. Suddenly concerned, he took a step towards her.

"Eliana, are you all right? Have you gotten too much sun today? Were you wearing a hat?"

"No, dad, I'm okay. I just need to sit down for a minute, I think." Eliana reached out to grasp the back of a chair near her with her free hand. The other was still within Ardeth Bay's powerful grip.

As if suddenly becoming aware that he retained his death grip on her hand, Ardeth released her immediately, schooling his features into a carefully neutral expression. He watched as Bernstein settled the woman into the chair she was hanging onto, felt her brow and began to fuss over her. Eliana, for her part, looked a bit better as soon as Ardeth had let go of her hand, and although she was still frightfully pale and still clutching her stomach, she didn't look anymore as though she was about to drop over.

Ardeth realized that she was studiously trying to avoid any further eye contact with him, and he backed away slightly. _What in Allah's name can I do now_, he wondered. This was something he had not considered, not at all. Although Ardeth was sure he had never met the woman before in this lifetime, he knew her still. He had seen her eyes, touched her hand, and sensed her aura, and he knew, with the kind of canny second sight peculiar to his ancestry and calling, who she was. Or rather, who she had been. And he was afraid.

This did not bode well, not at all. For this woman to arrive at this site, for this purpose, at this time, was a sign of ill omen. Ardeth was suddenly reminded of the stories told to him long ago by his grandfather and namesake. He remembered each and every tale, his fear steadily taking root and growing. No, this did not bode well.

* * *

Eliana huddled in her tent, still shaken and trembling from her recent encounter with the dark stranger. She had picked at her food during the noon meal, finally pushing her plate away and excusing herself. Her father, although still concerned, had let her go. At least, when she left, she had been looking a bit better—some color had returned to her cheeks, and her breathing was deeper and slower. Perhaps some rest was all she needed to recover from what had obviously been too much sun this morning.

She had all but run to the shelter of her tent, which was unpleasantly hot, sitting there in the full afternoon sun, but still seemed a refuge to her. Thankfully, the man, Ardeth Bay, had been nowhere in sight, having politely but firmly refused their offer of a meal to instead see to his horse, now sharing the corral with the other animals. Eliana had been relieved, for she didn't think that she could have managed to spend even one more minute in the man's presence. She knew her reaction was totally illogical, without any basis in what she considered reality, but that didn't change the way she felt. And she felt afraid of the man, a feeling borne not out of logic, but from some primitive, primal core buried within her soul. Almost as if he was a threat to her, but surely that was not the case, for what sort of evil intentions could he harbor towards her? He'd never even met her before, for heaven's sake. Yet Eliana knew, too, that Ardeth Bay had been as disturbed by their meeting as she.

She shuddered. What on earth was the matter with her? What was going on? Again, the feeling that the course of her life had been irrevocably changed the moment she set foot on this desert stole over her. She wrapped her arms around herself, cold despite the sweltering heat of the tent's interior.

Eliana finally sought refuge in the one place she had always found it—inside one of the dusty, old leather-bound books she had brought with her, one of the many her father had given her over the years. John Bernstein, always scoffing at the toys and clothes and "mindless drivel" other parents presented to their children for birthdays and Christmases, had always and forever gifted Eliana with the one thing he did value—knowledge. Birthday after birthday, year after year, Eliana's collection of books grew and grew, and the sheer number she now possessed was enough to fill a small library. Not surprisingly, given her father's avocation, most of the books tended to involve ancient history, especially that of Egypt and the Near and Middle East.

Blindly, Eliana rummaged through her backpack, not really caring what she read, as long as it freed her mind from this illogical paralysis of fear. Her hand touched a leather bound spine, and she grabbed the book and removed it from the pack. Looking at the deep burgundy cover, she read the title—"Temples of Ancient Egypt". Not the most stimulating of reads, but it would do. Randomly opening the book, Eliana found herself looking at an old illustration of Hypostyle Hall, a colossal structure built within the Temple of Amun at Karnak. The illustration's caption indicated that this temple addition was, architecturally speaking, one of the grandest and most beautiful, having been built by the Pharaoh Seti I as a tribute to Amun, the state god during his reign.

Ancient temples. Amun-Re. Karnak. Seti. Another word, another name, tried to form itself in her mind, but its sound and form was amorphous and too fleeting to give voice to…

Eliana felt a strange lassitude moving through her, and was grateful that the shivering that had wracked her earlier seemed to have disappeared. She was warmer, now, too. In fact, her skin, which had been unusually cold before, considering the temperature inside the tent, was now almost hot. Funny, though, how she couldn't seem to get her mind to focus on what she was reading. And she felt tired, so tired…

Though she tried, Eliana couldn't seem to keep her eyes focused on the book she held in her lap, and giving up, laid down on the cool nylon of her sleeping bag. Closing her eyes, intending to doze for only a moment, she drifted off…

* * *

She awakened to find her head cushioned on a broad shoulder, her body cradled by the warm, masculine arms that were wrapped loosely around her. Her cheek rested on the smooth, sleekly muscled planes of a man's bronze-skinned chest. She could feel the warmth of his body, smell the musky scent of his skin, and hear the strong beat of his heart. As she awoke, he stirred, turning slightly towards her and pulling her more tightly into his embrace. His breath stirred her hair, loose and fanning out over his arm, and he buried his face in the silky strands, inhaling the spicy fragrance left by her perfumed soaps.

Her eyes still closed, she noticed the other sounds, smells and textures surrounding her. Somewhere off in the distance, she heard the cry of a night bird. The smell of lotus blossoms drifted on the night air, mixing and mingling with the scent of perfumed incense. The fine linen sheets of the bed feel loosely over and around her, smoothly brushing against her skin, a cool and soothing touch. The heat of the man lying next to her radiated against her, warming her skin and comforting her senses. In his arms, she felt safe, and protected, and…cherished. Those were feelings, she knew, that were painfully rare to her.

She lifted a hand to his chest, lightly skimming it over the satiny smooth skin. He had a wonderful body, she thought. Strong, supple, well-muscled but lean—a graceful, athletic body that was powerful, but not overpowering. Her hand caressed the well-defined deltoid muscle of his shoulder and then traced a path down his arm, and back up again, learning the contours and shape as it went, finally coming to rest once again on the strong upper arm. Idly, her fingers traced the narrow length of leather cording that was knotted around his bicep.

He stirred again, this time turning fully towards her and gathering her close, so that the length of their bodies were pressed together, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. She moved, looping her arms around his neck and bringing her leg to lie over his, her foot stroking against the contours of his calf. She was lying on his left arm, effectively imprisoning it underneath her, but he brought his free hand up to her narrow waist, lightly stroking the smooth flesh that was, thankfully, free of the sticky body paint she was usually forced to wear. The hand moved, skimming down over the flare of her hip, curving over and around to grasp her buttocks and pull her against him fully. She could feel him stirring against her, could feel that he was coming awake in more ways than one, and she smiled, lifting her arms over her head and stretching languorously. Her movement caused her to arch against him even more, and she felt his grip on her tighten.

Smiling again, she opened her eyes and met his, expecting to see her almost playful mood reflected there. She did not. Instead, the deep brown of his eyes reflected a seriousness that surprised her, making the smile fade from her lips and the glint of good humor leave her expression.

"What is wrong, my love?" she asked, bringing her hand up to his face, cradling and caressing the strong line of his cheek, and the strength of his jaw.

"We have taken a great risk," he warned, "to be together, like this, here. And to actually have fallen asleep here, in your quarters…" He left the rest unsaid, although she knew as well as he what the consequences would be, should they be discovered.

Although his words, and his eyes, carried a warning, his hands didn't seem to heed it. Instead, they still massaged and stroked her, oblivious to the dictates of logic or caution. Her hands, too, were reluctant to abandon their exploration, as reason and prudence would have them do. She moved her arms between them, placing her palms on his chest and pushing gently to lever herself slightly away from him.

"But Seti is gone from the palace, and this campaign into Kush will keep him away for weeks, if not longer," she argued. "How can we be safer than we are right now, at this moment?"

"Seti may be gone, but you know that his eyes are everywhere. Before he left for Nubia, he would certainly have instructed the Med-Jai to watch your every move."

"Yes," she answered, realizing that he was right to be wary, and her voice was tinged with bitterness. "The Med-Jai stalk me like ghosts, well hidden, but there nonetheless, following my every move. I am well aware of how thoroughly they follow their orders."

"They are simply obeying their master, my love," he offered, and she was amazed and somewhat irritated that he seemed to be defending their dog-like devotion to a man she abhorred. "They are well aware that if they fail Seti, their lives are forfeit. Besides, they are not just charged with guarding you, but also with protecting you."

"Using his elite warriors to guard me is a waste. Why should these men care what happens to one of Seti's whores?" she spat, disgust and self-loathing oozing from every word.

Angrily, he rolled, taking her with him, ending up on top of her, pinning her to the mattress with his body. He supported his weight with one arm, while his other hand imprisoned her chin, his firm grip holding her still and forcing her to meet his eyes, which had darkened to near black with the force of the emotion coursing through him. Giving her chin a slight shake, he hissed, "Never say that! Never! You are no man's whore!"

She looked at him, and the rage and helpless frustration she saw in his eyes made her own fill with tears.

"What am I, then, if not Seti's whore?" she whispered, and one diamond bright drop did spill from her eye. His face softened, and she caught her breath as he lowered his lips to her cheek, his tongue trailing after the stray teardrop and gently kissing it away. Lifting his head, he met her eyes again.

"You are the woman I love," he said simply. "You are the air that I breathe, the blood that flows through my veins, the temple at which my body worships." His eyes burned into hers, consuming in their intensity, scalding her body, devouring her soul. "You are everything any man could ever want, the fulfillment of every desire I have ever felt, the greatest temptation I have ever fruitlessly tried to resist. You make my soul burn, you steal my sanity, and you turn my body to fire. You are everything to me—without you, I would have no reason, no purpose, nothing for which to live. I would be an empty shell, but for the love I feel for you."

"And you are my salvation," she whispered softly.

Gently, he kissed her, lips moving softly over hers, hands caressing and exploring the contours of her body as she lay beneath him. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and sink into the blessed oblivion of desire that this man could so effortlessly stir in her. There was another matter weighing on her mind, though, so once more she spoke, giving voice to a fear she had carried with her for days.

"What of the news I heard rumored the other day, my love? That Seti wished to take a new wife to replace his dead queen? What of that?" she asked. "Neferteri herself has mentioned to me on more than one occasion that her father, though he is well pleased with her, and her brother Ramses, wishes for a young wife who can give him more children."

"And who better to fill that role than his most favored concubine, is that what you fear?" He sighed, resting his forehead against hers for a brief moment.

"I do not wish to be Seti's wife!" she cried, all the fear she had carried with her for days exploding from her heart in that vehement oath. "I would rather be dead!"

"Do not say that, my love!" he begged. "While we yet have life, we have hope. Even if there is truth to this gossip, it still may be possible that he would choose another; and the gods willing, he will be well pleased with her and release you from service to him."

"No man should have so much power over the lives of others! A living God among men; that is what he is called!" she scoffed. "What trash! He is a man, the same as any man. But for an accident of birth, he could have been in the brick kilns or building stone temples with the Hebrew slaves. He is no god! And yet he is given the power of life and death over all Egypt! If he were any other man, what he does would be considered sacrilege!"

"If he were any other man, the gods themselves would not keep you from me."

"But he can, and he does, and his accursed Med-Jai lurk behind every corner to ensure fidelity to his wishes!" She pounded her fists on his shoulders once, in a gesture of sheer, hopeless rage. "If I am chosen to be his wife, what will we do? I cannot give you up, I will not! This cannot happen!"

"If that day should come, my love, I swear to you that nothing will stop me from keeping you from him," he vowed, and she saw the truth of his promise reflected in his eyes. "I will move heaven and earth, break every vow of allegiance and fidelity I have ever made, sacrifice all that I am and all that I have to take you from him forever and make you mine. If I must, I will spit in the very faces of the gods to protect our love."

For endless moments, she stared at him. She was amazed at the ferocity of his words, warmed by the promise that she was not alone, and comforted by the fact that this man, the second most powerful man in Egypt, answerable only to Seti himself, would be willing to risk so much, to throw so much away, just for their love.

She held his eyes with hers, and moved beneath him, arching her hips into his and opening her legs to cradle his body between her thighs. Her arms wound around his neck, and she drew his head down to hers, pressing her lips to his in a kiss filled with sorrow and joy, passion and fury, hope and despair. His mouth slanted over hers, deepening the kiss and turning it into a wordless vow. His tongue traced over her lips, lightly at first, then more forcefully, finally making its way into her mouth to tease and tangle with hers.

She raked her nails over the smooth contours of his back, feeling the rippling muscles and glorying in the latent power he possessed, power that he would call into play for her, if the need should arise. She moaned as his mouth burned a fiery trail down the column of her throat, his hands moving up her ribcage to caress her breasts, thumbs moving erotically over the swollen, sensitive flesh. His tongue, warm and wet, traced the curve of each breast and swirled enticingly around the hardened tip of one, before taking her fully into his mouth. His lips and mouth pulled on her flesh, suckling and teasing, and she thought she would go insane from the sheer pleasure of his touch.

"Please…"she begged, writhing and gasping with the need his touch was building in her. "Please—now!"

His hand slid between her legs, skilled fingers caressing and probing, testing her readiness for him. She bent her knees and opened wider for him, feeling the hot, hard length of him pressing against her moist flesh. Taking him in her hand, she guided him to the entrance of her body, and arched against him. Groaning, he accepted the invitation she offered, and with one careful thrust, he filled her.

She cried out, then; and as he began to move inside her, slowly at first and then with a growing intensity, she felt an exquisite tension begin to build. He thrust into her again and again, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out over his skin, the taste of it salty against her tongue. Her hands grasped his hips and her fingers dug into the bunching muscles of his buttocks, straining to pull him more fully into her. Gods, she was so close, so close! She had never felt anything from any man's touch before, Seti included—Seti be damned!—but the things that this man could do to her with a single look, the things he could make her feel with a single caress made her ache. And to be possessed by him, like this; well, it was enough to make the gods weep!

His lips took hers again, devouring her mouth as he continued to drive into her body. She was on the edge, moving closer and closer to completion with each powerful thrust. Suddenly, she was there, falling and soaring at the same time, clenching around him and crying out, holding tight to him as the world dissolved around her. And then he was there with her, with one last thrust, plunging into the abyss and beyond, burying his face in the curve of her neck and groaning against her skin as he spilled himself into her.

As she held him there against her, arms wrapped around him, legs holding him within her, a word formed on her lips and spilled forth. In a whisper as soft as a butterfly alighting on a lotus blossom and as full of power as an arcane spell, she gave voice to the word, to the name…

"Imhotep."

* * *

The golden rays of the early evening sun spilled across the sand as the workers labored to remove ever more buckets of sand from the square, evenly-spaced holes springing up across the desert floor. They had been digging now for eight days and nine hours, and still had nothing to show for it.

Ardeth Bay was there with them, waiting as the excavation teams filled bucket after bucket with the grainy sand, and then lugging the overflowing containers off to the site perimeter. There, they were dumped out, the discarded sand by this time forming small, man-made mountains around the edges of the excavation. He had been working now since three in the afternoon, and he was amazed at the amount of sand he had carted off. The workers, even considering how disappointed they were to have found nothing yet, were certainly not slackers. No, they kept up their steady pace, removing the soil trowel full by trowel full, and had kept him working steadily for the past three hours.

Wiping his gritty sleeve over his forehead, Ardeth grimaced as the grimy sand mixed with his sweat to form a sticky, itchy crust of dirt. No stranger to hard physical work, he was still impressed with the amount of labor that went into such a project. He walked to the water container, taking a cup and filling it with the lukewarm, but blessedly wet liquid, and downed it in one gulp. Tiny rivulets of water dripped down from the corners of his mouth to his chin, leaving clean tracks in the layer of dust coating his skin. Wiping the water away with the back of one hand, he squinted his eyes and scanned the site, looking for the woman.

When he saw her, he was struck again by the fact that she was not at all what he would have expected, given who he knew she was. If he'd had to guess, he would have expected her to be cool, aloof and arrogant, with a haughty kind of beauty that kept men at their distance. Beautiful she was, Ardeth thought to himself, but not beautiful in any sort of haughty way. Instead, she was a woman of average height and a slim, athletic build, with wavy auburn hair and green eyes that sparkled with warmth. Not that they'd look very warm when they'd been turned his way, he thought. Instead, they'd looked haunted, and frightened, and almost hunted.

She looked much better this afternoon, he decided, as he watched her working with a handful of young people, moving gracefully between the various pits they were stationed in, offering advice and encouragement. Her color was back, and although when she'd first emerged from her tent, she had looked every bit as shaken as when she first went in (_she_ _must not have rested well_, he thought), she had improved quickly once she got back to the dig. _And once she had gotten far away from him,_ he added. Indeed, she had avoided him like the plague since their first importune meeting, and for now, he was content to let things rest as they were.

He meant her no harm, and as long as she showed no signs of remembering who and what she was—or who and what he was—he intended to leave her alone. He was still sorely afraid of what her presence here heralded, though, and he vowed to keep her under close watch to ensure that she didn't somehow manage to trigger some sort of cosmic trap by her mere presence. In the meantime, he was interested in what kind of person she had become, this time around.

She had her own pit that she was excavating, and he noticed with some interest that she was not afraid to dig in the dirt with her bare hands and get just as dirty as those she supervised. That kind of thing would have once been beneath her, in both of her past reincarnations, at least from what he had been told. Her outgoing, friendly manner was also somewhat of a surprise, for he expected someone who was class-conscious and very much aware of her status among others. Instead, he had noticed straight off that Eliana was every bit one of the team, well-liked and respected by the lot of them, not worried about her place in the scheme of things and willing to lend a hand or an ear where it was needed.

No, she was not what he had expected at all.

His thirst quenched for now, Ardeth went back to hauling sand.

* * *

"Eliana, you'd better come take a look at this," one of her students called.

Standing up in the pit she'd been working in, Eliana scanned the surrounding area. Finally, she noticed a shaggy blonde head sticking up out of one the nearby pits, and a tanned arm frantically waving to get her attention. Grabbing the side of the pit she was in, and heaving herself up, she took a moment to brush off the ever-present grime before making her way over to Doug Edelman and his little corner of the excavation.

"What's up, Doug? Run out of buckets?"

"No, El, I think I've got something here," he said, shaking his head. "Can you come down here for a minute and take a look?"

"No problem. I'll be there in a second." She sat down on the edge of the hole and pushed herself over the edge. "Whatcha got?"

Silently, Doug pointed down into the corner of the pit, where he had removed most of the sand from what appeared to be a long fragment of white rock. Frowning, Eliana knelt down to take a closer look at the object, and gasped when she realized what it was. Long, yes, but not as long as one would expect; and white, yes, but with a brownish tinge from being buried so long in the sand. The object was also easily recognizable, with a narrow shaft and two rounded protrusions on each end. Shocked, Eliana looked up at Doug, who nodded in agreement.

Standing, she walked to the edge of the pit and looked over to where her father was standing, talking quietly to Professor Hamid.

"Dad! Come and see this—Doug's found a femur!"

But her father didn't hear her, for before she finished speaking, a shout went up from the center of the excavation. Eric and his team, who had been working tirelessly— and fruitlessly — at the center of the site for days, now, suddenly raised their voices in whoops of wild enthusiasm. Eliana and Doug, along with everyone else, looked over to see the group jumping up and down, slapping each other on the back, looking almost drunk with joy. Seeing that they had secured everyone's undivided attention, Eric announced, almost giddily,

"We've found it!"

In an instant, everyone at the site was running, nearly tripping over themselves to get a close look at what was, quite possibly, living history. Eliana's father threw down the papers he was holding, and grabbed Hamid's arm, literally dragging him along; Doug hauled himself out of the pit, extending a hand to Eliana and yanking her up, too; and from the perimeter of the site, Ardeth Bay was rapidly making his way towards them, a grim frown on his face.

Once everyone was gathered on the edge of the four meter deep pit, staring down at the sandy bottom, with expressions ranging from unbelieving hope to grim trepidation, Eric moved aside and pointed at what had caused the uproar. In the center of the pit, gleaming and bright, even after being buried in the sand for almost a century, was the partially exposed top, and part of one side, of a golden pyramid.

Eliana heard her father gasp, and she, too, felt her breath catch, but less from the sheer joy of being a part of the archaeological find of the century and more from some odd sense of finally coming home. Why she would feel that way, she had no idea, but she was suddenly struck with the overpowering feeling that every moment of her life had been carrying her irrevocably towards this moment.

Ardeth watched impassively as the sun glinted off the now-revealed secret that he was charged with guarding, then narrowed his eyes and looked towards John Bernstein as the older man sank to his knees at the edge of the pit, staring with awe at what had finally been uncovered. At last, the reality of what they had discovered seemed to sink in, and he gave a name to what they had unearthed.

"The golden pyramid," he whispered, reverently. "We have found Ahm Shere!"


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

_Now is the day of reckoning when years laid end to end are numbered, when travelers huddled about the night fire hear the story of every man. The doors of the past and future open._

_--Excerpt from "Becoming the Swallow", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

Yellow light from the sodium bulbs of the heavy-duty work lights spilled over the site, as dark shadows writhed just outside the perimeter of the floodlit area. Generators hummed, voices carried through the night air, and although it was well past midnight, the excavation buzzed with activity, as workers clambered in and out of the central pit, removing bucket after bucket of sand. No one had been willing to leave the site that evening, even if Bernstein had been inclined to allow it. Instead, the camp's cook had commandeered several of the laborers and marched them back to the camp, muttering in Arabic about still needing to feed the damn fools, even if they didn't think they were hungry. Back at the camp, the cook's impromptu staff had piled sandwiches, fruit and cans of warm soft drinks into crates and dragged them back to the site, where the workers were able to eat and then quickly get back to work.

And they were working as if driven. The laborers were understandably less enthused about working through the night than were the archaeological students, but they had quickly perked up when Bernstein offered to pay them double wages if they'd work all night. The students, and Eric as well, were on such an adrenalin high that they could barely sit still, and were working furiously to uncover more and more of the ancient structure. Bernstein and Hamid had enthusiastically joined in the digging, and by now, about three meters of each of the pyramid's four sides was exposed, along with the strangely flat top.

The discovery of the pyramid had even managed to bring the Sudanese out of their tents and over to the site. Normally, they stayed well away from anything resembling dirt or physical labor, preferring instead to huddle within the shelter and shade of the tents. When they heard the ruckus being raised earlier in the evening, though, they had walked over to see what the fuss was all about. Apparently, a discovery of such magnitude had impressed even their bureaucratic minds and they, too, had stared in awe at the treasure that had just been unearthed. Of course, for all their genuine interest in the discovery, it had not been enough to persuade them to dirty their hands, or even sit around to watch while more was uncovered. Instead, they had run back to the site, declaring that they had to report the discovery at once to their superiors in Khartoum. _Not that they were going to find anyone in a government office this late at night_, Bernstein had told his inner circle of assistants, snorting with derision.

Eliana, after staring at the newly recovered pyramid with the rest of them, and congratulating Eric on the find, had gone back to the pit where Doug had found the buried femur. Doug, as excited as all the rest of them, had begged out of helping her with its removal, preferring instead to stay in the central site, where all the action seemed to be. Eliana, still feeling somewhat unsettled by everything that had happened during the day, had quietly agreed, and was now in the process of carefully dusting off and uncovering the rest of the bone. Working carefully and thoroughly, she brushed off each of the epiphyses, revealing the head of the femur, where it would fit into the ball-and-socket joint of the pelvis, and the hinge joint that would join with the tibia to form the knee joint. She was just about to go and get a copy of the site map to draw in the location and position of the femur, when another gleam of white caught her eye, not far away from where they had unearthed the leg bone. Kneeling down again, she brushed away at the small white patch, her excitement growing when she recognized the curvature of the frontal bone of a small skull.

Quickly whisking away some of the sand, and using her fingers to dig the more cloying dirt from around the temporal bones, she watched as her efforts were rewarded and the skull's facial bones were revealed. The skull was definitely that of a primate, and most probably a member of the Homo sapiens family, but it was small, about the size one would expect in a child of about four or five. Still, that didn't seem right, for as she uncovered the rest of the face, including the intact lower jaw, and quickly counted the teeth, she noticed that this little person had had a full set of adult teeth. And not only did he—or she—have a full set of teeth, but the teeth themselves looked strange—almost as if they'd been polished to a point, or…sharpened.

Frowning, she sat back on her bent legs, resting her hands on her knees. She would have to get her father over here to take a look, because this just didn't seem right. Maybe she was wrong—maybe this was the skeleton of some unfortunate desert child that had perished long ago—but those teeth…

Standing up, she hauled herself out of the pit and went to look for her father. Who just happened to be looking for her.

"Ellie! We need you over here right away," he shouted, walking rapidly, but somewhat stiffly, across the floodlit sand. In his youth, Bernstein could have outlasted any of the laborers here, with or without sleep, but he was no longer young. Although still in fine shape for a man in his fifties, the effort he had been exerting in the last few hours was taking its toll.

"What's the matter, Dad?"

"You know how we thought it was strange that the pyramid had a flat top? Looked just like someone had chopped off the very tip of the point?" Bernstein explained, and Eliana nodded.

"Akil's been looking at it for a while, and he thinks that there's something written on the top—some sort of inscription," he paused. "Thing is, it's been eroded a bit after all these years, so it's not very clear, and we didn't notice it until just now. It's written in some sort of strange hieroglyphics—looks to be earlier than the New or Middle Kingdom stuff Akil's used to, and even though I'm familiar with Old Kingdom glyphs, my eyesight isn't good enough anymore to see it clearly. We thought you might take a look…"

"Have you taken a tracing?" she asked. Often, it was easier to read the hieroglyphs from a paper rubbing than from the actual stonework itself.

"Akil's doing that now," he explained. "He thought that you might like to take a break anyway and meet him back at the dinner tent. He's about ready to take one, anyway. Light's better there, and you look like you could use something to eat, anyway." Bernstein frowned at his daughter, as if scolding her for not taking better care of herself.

"Tell him I'll meet him there," she agreed. "Oh, and Dad? Could you take a look in the pit I was working in? The one where Doug found the bone? Looks like there might be a complete primate skeleton in there—I just uncovered a skull."

"You don't say! Now that is interesting. We'll have to take a good look at it to see how far back it dates."

"Yes, of course. But Dad, it looks kind of funny—I'd kind of like to get your take on what you think it might be…"

"_What_ I think it might be? I thought you just said it was a primate…" He looked at her, a perplexed expression on his face.

"Never mind, Dad—you'll see what I mean when you take a look. Besides, one skeleton buried out in the desert is nothing compared to what you've got over there," she said, gesturing towards the rapidly reappearing pyramid. She turned towards the camp. "I'm heading over to meet Professor Hamid—let me know what you think of the skull when I get back, okay?"

Bernstein nodded and watched as she made her way out into the darkness towards the camp. It wasn't too far, he thought, but still—it was the middle of the night, in the middle of the desert, she was his daughter, and who knew what was lurking out there? Looking around, he spotted his newest laborer dumping out a bucket of sand.

"Ardeth! Would you mind walking Ellie back to the camp for me?" He pointed at his daughter, who was already well out into the desert. "Make sure she gets there safely?"

Ardeth looked at Bernstein, and then towards Eliana, who had already walked out of earshot. Nodding at the older man, he jogged off after her.

* * *

Eric had been digging for several hours at the bottom of the pit, removing bucket after bucket of dirt and sand from the shining golden walls of the pyramid, when he discovered the first few centimeters of the doorway. His spade, instead of scraping against the golden structure, suddenly seemed to disappear _into_ the wall. Dropping to his knees, he began to dig away at the pyramid, uncovering what he at first thought might be a depression in the side. As he continued to remove dirt, and the sunken area continued to expand, he began to recognize it for what it was—a doorway, or at least a window, or some sort of opening. And that would mean…

"I've found a way in!" he yelled, jumping to his feet and beckoning the rest of the group over.

* * *

Eliana turned as she heard footsteps approaching from the dark, and saw a tall form walking towards her. Had her father forgotten something? As the figure neared, however, she saw that it was not her father. Instead, it was the one person she most wanted _not_ to see. She looked away and kept walking towards the camp, even faster than before.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, not bothering to look back at him, and the accusatory tone in her voice made the question seem almost rude.

"Your father asked me to accompany you back to the camp," Ardeth replied, his voice as mild as hers had been sharp. His long legs easily kept up with the pace she was setting, and her sidelong glance revealed that he was now walking next to her. She walked faster. "I believe he was worried about you walking alone through the desert at night."

"And so he sent _you_ after me?" She didn't bother hiding the derision in her voice.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Bernstein," he replied. "In fact, I should take this opportunity to apologize for my reaction when we first met. You see, you remind me of someone…someone who was…"

Ardeth was normally never at a loss for words, but he found he needed to search carefully for the proper way to put this. He was unwilling to tell her exactly why her presence had alarmed him so. He in no way wanted to take the chance of triggering anything within her psyche and unloosing the _ka_ which surely dwelt there. It was quite possible that she was completely unaware of whom she had been, and indeed, that she found the idea of past lives and reincarnations ludicrous. If that was so, then he wished her well and Godspeed on her journey through this life. Others in his order may disagree, but Ardeth did not believe that the sins committed in a past life should be counted against one who had apparently been chosen by the gods for rebirth and a second chance.

"Uh, someone who was known to me before," he finished. "My shock was quite great, and I am afraid I was rude." His explanation was weak, he thought, but it was all he could come up with.

"Please forgive me," he added.

Eliana slowed, looking over at him almost unbelievingly. "You mean that look of abject horror on your face when you met me was because I looked like some you once knew?"

He nodded.

"Well, forgive me, but I find that hard to believe. Besides, you're forgetting that meeting you wasn't exactly on my list of happy experiences for the year, either. So how do you explain that?"

"A reaction to my rudeness?" he suggested, with a shrug.

She looked at him measuringly and shook her head. "No, I don't think so. So why don't you tell me who you really are and what you're doing here?"

"My name is really Ardeth Bay. That is the truth," he stated. "I am here to help with the excavation. That also is true. I have already told you I mean you no harm. You may be assured that I am a man of my word, and that I would not say such a thing if I did not mean it."

"All the same, since we're well past politeness here already, I wish you would go back to the site. I don't care what my father asked you, I don't want you walking back with me. In fact, I don't really want you anywhere near me, so why don't you just keep your distance?"

"I'm afraid I cannot do that," he said quietly. Stopping, he took her by the upper arm and pulled her to a stop also, forcing her to meet his eyes. He ignored the sizzle of reaction he experienced when he touched her, that feeling of psychic alarm bells going off. "I gave your father my word that I would look out for you, and I will do so."

She glared at him, hoping that if she scowled ferociously enough, he might change his mind. He met and held her gaze, his own calm and steady, implacable as stone. Apparently, her icy stare wasn't enough to do the job. Sighing, she pulled her arm out of his grip and began walking again.

"Fine," she said, not sparing him a second glance. "Then at least stay out of my way."

* * *

After assembling the satellite phone and obtaining a signal, the man once again punched in the series of numbers that would connect him to his contact in Tripoli. Huddled behind some scraggly desert vegetation, he crouched low to avoid detection. His caution was unnecessary, however, as the distance that separated him from the camp and the darkness of the desert sky effectively screened him from view. He waited until the brusque voice at the other end of the line signaled that his call had gone through.

"Yes. It is I. They have found what they are saying is the golden pyramid of Ahm Shere." He listened, as the voice barked out a series of questions.

"No, no, they have not entered the pyramid yet, but that is surely eminent. No, they do not seem suspicious or overly concerned about security. They are scientists, remember? They are not worried about such things," he explained. "They plan to work all night and then rest briefly at midmorning before resuming again in the afternoon. I will be sure to inform you the moment something else is discovered."

The voiced barked out another sharp command.

"Yes, yes, I understand. Our cause will prevail."

He severed the connection, repacked the phone and skulked back to the tents.

* * *

Hamid waited at one of the tables in the dinner tent for Eliana to arrive. He was tired, his back hurt, and he was covered from head to foot with grime and perspiration. Now that he had stopped working and come back to the camp, the chill of the night air was cooling his damp skin and raising goose bumps. He mopped at his forehead with a dirt-stained handkerchief, and sighed. Even with the excitement of the find, it had been a long night, and he was looking forward to getting some sleep. Not even a find of this magnitude was worth staying awake for two solid days. He'd give Eliana the rubbing of the pyramid's inscription, maybe stay for a little while to see if she could make any sense of it, and then he fully intended to go to bed. John would be annoyed, but Akil Hamid was past caring. He was going to sleep--Ahm Shere, golden pyramids and John Bernstein be damned.

Hamid looked up as Eliana and the new fellow—what was his name? Ah, Ardeth Bay, that was it—walked in. Idly, he wondered what was wrong. Eliana looked nervous and distracted, and although Bay was probably better at masking his emotions than Ellie was, Hamid thought he looked somewhat uncomfortable, as well. Ah well, no telling what was wrong—after all, they had been working all day and most of the night, and everyone was bound to get a little piqued, operating with that little sleep.

Hamid stood, pulling out the chair next to himself for Eliana. She thanked him, and sat, perching on the edge of the chair like a nervous bird. He let Ardeth choose his own seat, which he did, sliding out a chair across the table from them both and sitting quietly. Hamid privately wondered why Bay was here—he was only a laborer, after all. What did he know—or care—about Egyptian hieroglyphs?

"So, Professor Hamid," Eliana began. "Dad tells me that you think there was an inscription on the top of the pyramid?"

"Yes, that's right," Hamid affirmed. "We were dusting off the top of the pyramid, and discussing how strange it looked—you know, that flat top and all—different than what you'd expect. John actually saw them first--the hieroglyphs, that is--and pointed them out to me."

"Well, they're tiny, so small that at first they simply looked like random scratches--or maybe that's just my old eyes failing on me, Ellie," he added, laughing at his own joke. "Couldn't read anything out there, what with the size of them and the poor light, but what we did see made John think that they pre-dated anything from the New or even Middle Kingdom..."

"Yes, Dad told me that much," Eliana nodded. "Do you have the tracing?"

Hamid reached over to the roll of thin paper lying next to him and stripped off the rubber band, unrolling the layer of parchment and spreading it out on the table. Much of the paper's surface was covered with the unbroken grayish black of graphite, but circling the center of the colored area was a series of figures, standing out in stark white contrast. As Hamid had said, the figures were tiny, and difficult to decipher.

"Do we have any stronger lights here?" Eliana asked.

Hamid stood and walked over to the supply boxes, muttering and digging through them until he finally fished out a high intensity flashlight. He returned to the table and trained the bright beam of light on the paper, as Eliana leaned over to examine the writing. As she looked over the markings, she seemed to grow more and more tense, finally looking up to stare at him, a carefully blank expression on her face.

"My father said he didn't recognize these symbols at all?" she asked, waiting for clarification.

Hamid shook his head, frowning. "No, he was quite certain that they were earlier than what we commonly find, and although he recognized a few of the characters as Old Kingdom glyphs, he wanted you to take a look. Said you'd done some research on Early Kingdom writing, and you'd have a better shot at figuring them out, since you could see them better. So--was he right?"

"Well," Eliana said, looking down at the parchment again. "This does look somewhat like Early Kingdom hieroglyphs, but if I had to guess, I'd say it predates even that. If this is Early Kingdom writing, then it's from one of the very first dynasties. Which would fit, I guess, considering what the legends say about this place..."

"You mean the Scorpion King legends?" Hamid asked.

"Yes."

"Can you read it, Eliana?" Hamid scooted closer to the edge of his chair, peering quizzically at the tracing. He squinted at it, trying in vain to make sense of the miniscule figures.

"Yes."

"Well for heaven's sake, child," he looked up at her, somewhat impatiently. "What does it say?"

Eliana glanced pointedly at Ardeth, and her intent was as clear as if she had spoken. There was no way she was going to translate the inscription with him sitting there. She knew that she was being unreasonably stubborn, and uncharacteristically rude as well, but he made her terribly uncomfortable, and she couldn't shake the feeling that he was somehow a danger to her. Besides, she thought, ungraciously—he was here as a hired hand, and he didn't need to know the intimate details about their discovery. He was paid to haul sand, nothing more. It wasn't like he had anything to contribute to the dig beyond brute strength, after all. He had completed the task her father had assigned, and now he could jolly well leave. Ardeth stared back, clearly waging an internal debate over whether or not to take her pointed, but wordless, suggestion. Finally, he stood, bowing his head in a shallow nod that encompassed both her and Hamid.

"I will tell your father that you have reached the camp safely and that you are now with Professor Hamid," he said. Turning, he quickly left the tent.

Once outside, however, he doubled back and took up a spot behind Eliana and Hamid, out of sight but within earshot. If there was something important in that inscription, he would hear what it was. Considering the significance of what they'd already found, he could do no less. Crouching down, he listened intently.

Waiting for a few moments, to make sure that Ardeth was well and truly gone, Eliana looked over at Hamid. Taking a deep breath, she began.

"You see this figure?" she pointed. "That is the cartouche of Anubis. According to the legends, while wandering near death in the desert, the Scorpion King made an unholy pact with the god. In exchange for his soul, Anubis would save the Scorpion King from death, and confer so much power upon him that he would be utterly invincible. Supposedly, the god created the Oasis of Ahm Shere out of the sands of the desert itself, with the golden pyramid as its centerpiece, so to speak. He gave the Scorpion King an army of invincible soldiers, and with this army, the Scorpion King defeated all his enemies and became the first Pharaoh.

"The god was fickle, though," she continued. "At the height of the pharaoh's reign, Anubis called in his marker, so to speak. The Scorpion King was cursed, and something monstrous happened--some legends say he was killed outright, others say that he was taken body and soul to the underworld, others say that he became some kind of horrific half man/half beast and was imprisoned somewhere, not fully alive, but not dead, either, in the pyramid. If you want to believe those last few legends, they go on to say that at some point, when the stars align right or something like that, the Scorpion King can be recalled from this netherworld and be forced to battle for his freedom. If he is defeated, the victor then controls both the Scorpion King and Anubis' army, and would become virtually invincible himself."

"I'm familiar with the legends, Eliana," Hamid responded, patiently. "After all, I have known your father for many years, and the quest for Ahm Shere was his fondest dream for most of them."

"Well, if you're willing to suspend disbelief somewhat, this inscription seems to validate at least some of the legends," Eliana said quietly. "Shall I read it to you?"

Hamid all but rolled his eyes. "Yes, Eliana, please read it…"

"Well, as you can see here," Eliana began, "the glyphs form a loose circle. Circles were important to the Egyptians. They signified completeness, or perfection, or eternity. The use of a circle here is symbolically important. From the glyphs themselves, I think that the meaning would be closer to eternity, taken in this context.

"As I already said, this cartouche is that of Anubis. This seems to be some sort of message, or vow, from Anubis to…someone. It never really specifies a name. The glyphs themselves can have several meanings, too, but I think that the closest thing to a direct translation is…" she looked up at Hamid, who was staring raptly at her, waiting for her to finish.

_"I am Anubis, Keeper of the Dead,_

_Reader of the Scales._

_You are marked as mine, my loyal servant—_

_Honored in this world, beholden to me in the next._

_All this I give you that you may faithfully serve me_

_Through this life and into the lands of the West._

_Treasure, might, wisdom, power, protection—all are yours_

_Until comes the day of reckoning;_

_Then will all the riches of this world be called back_

_Returning from whence they came_

_And the chains wrap round your soul._

_To this world all will be lost._

_And yet, heed my words—_

_Though the past lies buried_

_Yet can it be recalled_

_By the keeper of the key:_

_I am the Eye of Re._

_My gaze is glittering light,_

_Icy fire atop the gold mountain._

_I watch and protect all that is mine;_

_All else falls before my servants._

_My light shall awaken the sleepers_

_And throw off the blanket of years,_

_And my kingdom shall be reborn."_

"That's it," she finished, and took a deep breath. Once again, she looked up into Hamid's eyes. The professor was obviously puzzling over the words, turning them around in his mind and trying to make sense of the ancient words.

"What do you make of it?" she asked. She stood up and stretched, then retrieved a warm soft drink from one of the iceless coolers. Opening the can, she took a long drink, watching and waiting while Hamid considered her question.

"Well, the first part of the inscription seems to give weight to the legends of the Scorpion King, as you said," he finally offered. "The next part is rather confusing, though. It seems to suggest that…" he broke off, shaking his head.

"Go on, Professor Hamid," Eliana prodded. "I think I know where you're going with this, and if that's the case, I have to tell you, I'm inclined to agree." Frowning, she added, "No matter how ludicrous it sounds."

"Well, all right, Eliana—here's what I think," he began. "This inscription seems to suggest that there is a 'key' of some sort that can be used to restore the Oasis of Ahm Shere." He glanced off into the distance, where the work lights surrounding the dig marked its location. Eliana nodded silently, signaling that this was, indeed, what she had inferred from the inscription as well.

"And from the words following that reference to a key," he continued, looking back at her, "my guess is that we're looking for something that glitters, something that brings to mind 'icy fire,' and something that can be placed on top of the pyramid—the "golden mountain," to unlock the door, as it were." He paused for a moment.

"I can think of only one thing that fits all those descriptions."

Eliana's eyes widened as she realized to what Hamid was referring. There was only one object in all of archaeology that fit that description so perfectly, with such an effortless leap of intuition, and she mentally smacked herself in the forehead for not coming up with it herself.

"You mean," she asked, "that you think the key to Ahm Shere, so to speak, has been sitting in front of us all this time?" He nodded.

"Yes, Eliana, I think that we've had it all along, not really realizing what it was, or what it meant. We have the key, and a simple phone call from your father will bring it to us."

"The diamond," she breathed, "the diamond. Jonathan Carnahan's little gift to the British Museum is the key to Ahm Shere? The Eye of Re?"

* * *

Ardeth Bay sank down further into the shadows hiding him from Eliana and Professor Hamid. He rocked back on his heels, trying to regain his composure. He felt as though he'd received a sharp blow to the solar plexus—as though all the wind had been knocked from his lungs. What new disaster was now about to be heaped upon the world? _Allah help us_, he thought. _This whole situation keeps getting worse and worse._

He knew that he must get word of this latest development to the rest of the Med-Jai. They had to be prepared for what was surely to come. Recovered from his initial shock, he rose quickly and gracefully, and made his way to the corral holding his horse. Whispering soothing words into the beast's ear, he hastily saddled the stallion and led him out of the enclosure. Once outside of the perimeter of the camp, he swung himself onto the horse's back, and whispered a sharp command. The horse, ever attuned to the voice of its master, trotted off into the desert, heading into the north where the Med-Jai waited.

* * *

Eric looked unbelievingly at Bernstein, who had just announced that they were through for the night and would be heading back to the camp. They had spent the better portion of an hour digging away at the doorway, and with the combined efforts of everyone there, had cleared out a decent-sized access hole into the pyramid. The doorway was still blocked by a significant amount of dirt, but they had opened it up enough so that a person could fit into the hole and be lowered to the passageway inside. Eric himself had been honored with the opportunity to be the first to look inside the pyramid, shoving his head and torso into the hole and shining a flashlight into the gloomy interior.

The access hole was a little over a meter above the stone floor of what he recognized as a dark hallway. This passage, narrow but with a reasonably high ceiling, stretched out to the left and right as far as he could see. The light of the flashlight wasn't bright enough to illuminate the end of the hallway, so the only way to know for sure what was there would be to actually go inside. And that's what Eric had fully intended to do, at least until Bernstein had made his surprising, and rather uncharacteristic, decision to break for the night.

"You're joking—right, John?" Eric asked his mentor, raising his eyebrows in an expression of disbelief.

"No, Eric, I am totally serious. We have been out here long enough as it is, and this latest discovery of yours is too important to tackle while we're all half out of our minds with sleep deprivation. I will not let you go in there at night, without having had enough sleep, and without bringing along the appropriate supplies. It is too much to risk."

"But John," Eric argued, "we're right on top of something huge—you know it as well as I do! Why can't we at least go inside and take a quick look around?"

"Because you have no idea of what's in there, and neither do I," Bernstein answered, calmly and irrefutably. "I will not change my mind about this, Eric. We are done for the night. We will come back tomorrow afternoon, bring the necessary equipment, and take a look around in there. But for now, let's get everyone back to the camp. No one has had any sleep for almost twenty-four hours, and they're getting a little punchy."

"You intend to just leave this here, then? Unguarded?" Eric challenged.

"No, Eric, I don't. We're going to put a board over the doorway, and I'm going to leave a couple of the workers here overnight, to keep an eye on things. It will keep until tomorrow, trust me. I've been looking for this longer than you have, after all. If I can wait for a few hours, so can you."

Eric shook his head and stood up, dusting off his knees and grumbling under his breath as Bernstein walked away to dismiss the laborers for the rest of the night. Once again, Bernstein had managed to surprise him. He would have expected John to fight with him over who would be the first inside. Instead, his boss was being strangely cautious and atypically wary. It was almost as if Bernstein was feeling hesitant about entering the pyramid for some reason—as if he knew that something dangerous lurked within…

_Oh, stop being nuts,_ Eric chided himself. _The old guy's just feeling tired. He probably wants to get some sleep so he CAN knock me out of the way and be the first inside._

Sighing, Eric picked up his spade and hoisted it over his shoulder, tiredly telling his students to call it quits for now and go back to the camp for the rest of the night.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX **

_The sun rises, an eye of fire, and through its light we come to see the world as gods would have it._

_--Excerpt from "The Confession", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

"Are you insane?" The heavily inflected British voice bellowed. Bernstein held the phone away from his ear and waited until he could no longer hear the steady stream of invective issuing from the earpiece. Calmly, he began again.

"I'm quite serious, Charles. We have good reason to believe that the diamond you have up there is the key to unlocking a bit of a mystery we've uncovered."

Charles wasn't buying it, and the scathing tone in his voice reflected his disdain. "The inscription—yes, you've already said that. You've found some sort of inscription on a chunk of rock, and now you think that my diamond is going to be the key to restore the mythical Oasis of Ahm Shere. Tell me—how much sun have you been getting down there?"

Bernstein was hard pressed to remain calm and reasonable himself. He didn't like the tone of arrogant sarcasm that was practically dripping from the receiver, and besides that, he was in a hurry. He and Hamid had come into Khartoum specifically to make this phone call and to restock their food and supplies, and their time was almost up. The chopper was fueling up right now, and within an hour, the pilot would be ready to take them back to the dig. Hamid was off at the market, and Bernstein envied him—he was sure Akil was having a much better time right now than he was.

"Charles," he said, slowly and patiently, much as if he were talking to a slow and rather stupid student, "I realize this is a bit much to take, all at once, but we really have uncovered the upper portion of a golden pyramid, and we really have found an inscription.

"Furthermore, that is not _your_ diamond—it belongs to the British Museum, and you just happen to be the chief curator. If I have to go over your head, I will—you can count on that, friend." Bernstein knew he shouldn't have added that last threat, but his patience was wearing parchment thin, and he wanted—no, he needed—to get past this wall of disbelief so Charles would help him.

"Now just a bloody minute," Charles spluttered, and Bernstein curled his lip in a grimace of disgust as he imagined angry spittle hitting the phone on the other end of the line. "You can't go over my head—this is my museum, and this is my decision."

"I can, and I will, old boy," Bernstein corrected him. "If you recall, a couple of the good fellows on the Museum Board are old friends of mine. If you don't help me with this yourself, out of curiosity, or scientific interest, or a sense of fellowship, one archaeologist to another, or—hell, I don't give a damn why you help me! If you don't cough up that damned diamond soon, and get it down here pronto, I will waste no time in renewing old acquaintances with those board members. I will also certainly let it be known that you are more interested in moldering in your musty little office in London, dusting off the museum's tired old displays, than you are in participating in the biggest archaeological find in years! How long has it been, friend, since the museum has added something new and amazing to its Egyptology collection? Been a while, hasn't it?"

The silence on the other end of the line stretched on for so long that Bernstein began to wonder if Charles had hung up on him. Finally, he heard a small cough, and what sounded like a throat being cleared. When Charles spoke, his voice was once again calm and well modulated, with that precise British accent.

"All right, John—tell me one more time why I should pack up the Carnahan Diamond and lug it all the way to Sudan—an area which, if no one has bothered to inform you, is not exactly on Great Britain's list of countries where tourists are most likely to be welcomed. Lots of chaps there, I'd guess, who wouldn't mind lifting a fifty kilo diamond off a British tourist..."

"Pack it right, Charles," Bernstein interrupted, "and no one will even know what you're carrying. In fact, even better—work out a deal with those diplomat types you're forever brown-nosing with over at the embassy, and they might be able to get you in through less official channels. I don't care how you do it, but get that diamond down here. It is absolutely crucial to this dig."

From the loud huff that resonated clearly over the phone, Bernstein could tell he'd offended the stuffy British museum director again. He didn't care, though—he could tell from the way the discussion was going that Charles was caving in. Most probably, this was from the clear threat he'd made to involve the Museum Board, which was relentless in pestering Charles to add to the museum's aging display on Ancient Egypt. In fact, Charles had let it slip, several months back, and after a few too many drinks, that he'd begun to worry about his tenure at the prestigious institution. Bernstein was sure that Charles was regretting that moment of alcohol-induced candor right about now; but again, he didn't care. He wanted that diamond, and he wanted it soon, and he'd do whatever it took to get it here.

"So all you want me to do is bring the diamond there, plunk it down on top of your rock pile, and then see if some magic hocus-pocus happens and suddenly—POOF! Ahm Shere exists?"

"Ahm Shere does exist, you bloody fool!" ranted Bernstein. "I told you—we've already found the golden pyramid, and an entrance into it. Even holed up in your office for all these years, you must have read enough about the Ahm Shere legends and the recent geological goings-on in Sudan to have some clue about this whole expedition. Eliana translated those hieroglyphics on the pyramid, and the inscription is as plain as the skinny, pointed nose on your face—the Carnahan Diamond is the capstone for that pyramid, and replacing it will do something—trigger something—to restore the Oasis!"

Charles sighed, but it was obvious he was giving up. Arrogant and hot-tempered though he was, tenacity under pressure had never been one of his strengths, and he was hopelessly outgunned by the sheer, ruthless determination of someone like John Bernstein on a mission. Still, he tried once more.

"You are that convinced of it, are you? I would hate to go to all this trouble and then…"

"I would bet my entire fortune on it," Bernstein vowed, cutting him off, and hoping that Charles didn't know how much—or in this case, how little—a college professor/archaeologist had in the way of a "fortune."

"All right, then—I'll see what I can do. I'll talk to some of my friends at the embassy and see what they can do to help me get this monster past customs. You know this will have to be cleared by the Museum Board, anyway, don't you? They may not be very happy to let me jet off into the bowels of Africa with one of their museum pieces, you know. Even if I can somehow persuade them to go along with it, they'll be expecting something substantial from this dig as payback."

"Tell them they can have whatever they want, as long as they can talk the Sudanese into letting go of it. I'd say that if this diamond does what I think it will do, the Sudanese will be quite indebted to the British Museum, anyway," Bernstein affirmed. _That is,_ he thought, _if they aren't too upset about the fact that it was a British citizen who absconded with it in the first place…_

"This may take a few days," Charles cautioned. "Don't expect to see me, or the diamond, in less than a week—maybe even two."

"Do the best you can—we've got some other things to check out in the meantime."

"John, you know you're going to owe me for this, don't you?" Charles couldn't stop the hint of a whine that buzzed in his words.

"I'll be happy to be in debt to you for this, friend," Bernstein offered, in a pleasant mood once more, now that he had gotten his way. "You take care, and get yourself here as soon as you're able."

Hanging up, he wandered over to the market where Hamid was waiting, surrounded by the food and other supplies. He had gotten ice, too, Bernstein noticed. Not that it would last long in the furnace of the desert, but at least they'd have cold drinks for a couple of days.

* * *

Charles walked across the old, highly polished hardwood floor of the room in which the Carnahan Diamond was displayed. There it was, in the center of the room, snug in its glass enclosure and nestled safe on its bed of crushed red velvet. It was a sight to behold, it was; and Charles marveled at the singular beauty of the gem. Huge, many-faceted, it seemed to catch every single speck of light in the room and reflect it back, purified and enhanced by its journey through the diamond's prismatic depths.

He glanced over at the multi-paned windows of the room, where heavy velvet draperies hung to deflect and filter the bright light of the warm afternoon. He sighed, thinking about the fight he was surely about to have with the Museum Board when he announced that he wanted to take one of their treasures on a little African safari. The arm-twisting he'd need to do over at the Embassy would be just as difficult. Still, he had given Bernstein his word, and there was also that little threat that John had made about going over his head. Actually, maybe Bernstein was onto something. Maybe the Board would be more than willing to take a bit of a risk if it might mean adding to their increasingly out-of-date Egyptian collection. Maybe this kind of risk-taking was what he should have been doing all along. Maybe they would actually appreciate what he was doing on their behalf. Maybe…

_Maybe I'd better stop canoodling about this and get on with it,_ he thought. As he turned to go, a stray beam of golden sunlight hit the diamond's surface and bounced off again, making the large gem almost appear to wink at him.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

_The universe is drawn in circles. The memory of chariot wheels clacking across small stones foreshadows the asp's death as he wraps himself around the wheel. He is crushed by its embrace._

_--Excerpt from "Adoration of Ra", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

The bones were laid out on the table, gleaming dirty white in the glare of the high-powered work light. The little skeleton was almost complete—it was only missing a few small bones from one of its toes. The rest had been unearthed near where the skull and femur were originally buried. In the week or so that had passed since that initial discovery, Eliana had worked steadily—sometimes helped by one of the students, most often alone—to uncover this small collection of body parts. She had mapped, sketched, photographed, tagged and finally bagged the specimens before finally bringing them all back to the camp. There, she had confiscated a table in the mess tent to use as a makeshift lab table. Now, the bones were carefully laid out and displayed in a rough approximation of where they would be, relative to each other, in the living body that had once contained them.

Eliana adjusted the light and leaned over the skeleton, using a brush to gently whisk off some of the remaining sand from one of the tiny hands. As she worked, she mulled over the mystery of who this little person had once been, and why he or she had ended up buried out here, in the desert, all alone. Her father and Professor Hamid had both looked over the skeleton at length, and had finally decided that, given the number and condition of the teeth, that this was, indeed, a very small adult. Odd to find it out here, they agreed, as neither of them had heard of the small-statured African tribes collectively referred to as Pygmies traveling this far to the north or east. The Mbuti of the Ituri forest in northeastern Congo were close, but Pygmies in general were a people of the forest. Indeed, their religious beliefs centered on the forest itself, considered their host and benefactor, so the likelihood of them wandering out into the desert was small.

"It is unusual, your father says, to find such a person buried out here, in the Sudan desert?" Rais Azziz asked, walking up behind her and peering at the skeleton. Sheer boredom had finally driven the Sudanese from their tents, and during the last few days, they had become a more noticeable presence around the camp. The four government officials, Mousa and his group, were still standoffish and aloof, preferring their own company to that of the dig crew, but they joined the others for meals, and attempted, somewhat uncomfortably, to blend in.

Azziz, however, had become positively chummy with the archaeologists, following them around and asking endless questions, seeming almost to want to pick up a degree in archaeology through osmosis. He grilled Eliana at length, too, asking detailed questions about her background in languages and linguistics, and picking her brain about the legends surrounding Ahm Shere.

She didn't mind answering his questions, but he had an annoying habit of sneaking up behind her and looking over her shoulder as she worked, and it was beginning to get on her nerves. Then again, her nerves were almost a lost cause anyway. The incessant lack of sleep, the gritty, oven-like conditions of the desert, and her constant attempts to keep Ardeth Bay in her radar and stay well clear of him had all combined to fray her nerves—and her temper—to the breaking point. _It's a wonder I'm not popping Valium by the handful_, she thought. She had never been one to self-medicate, instead preferring to lose herself in research or work out her frustrations in the gym, but out here in the middle of nowhere, there were precious few ways to relieve stress and tension. If she took a nap, she invariably dreamed; if she tried to take a walk, her father had developed the annoying habit of sending Ardeth Bay to watch over her; if she tried to read, she couldn't concentrate. So she worked, and worked, and worked, trying to focus on anything but Egyptian priests, desert nomads or the ever-present heat and sand. So far, her strategy was not working out well. And now, Azziz had practically attached himself to her side, watching her every move as she cleaned and began to assemble the little body on the table.

Making matters worse was that Azziz's interest in her work had somehow piqued Muhammad Hassan's curiosity, as well. The military intelligence officer, polite and respectful as always, had asked her this morning if she would mind if he observed her work for a while. That was six hours ago. Hassan had sat in the tent all morning, his dark, unfathomable eyes seldom leaving her as she worked on the specimen. Every so often, he would ask a brief, pointed question about something she was doing, but beyond that, he was a quiet shadow looming in the corner. Hassan had never done anything overtly threatening in any way, but there was something about the man's quiet intensity that made Eliana nervous. He saw too much, heard too much, and being the focus of that much undivided attention was enough to set anyone on edge.

"Miss Bernstein? Did you hear me?" Azziz was looking at her curiously.

"Umm, yes, I heard you," Eliana answered, distractedly looking up from the specimen and casting a quick glance back at him. "Yes, you're right. Dad and Professor Hamid were quite surprised to find him—or her—buried out here. He's a bit far away from home."

"Fierce-looking little thing, isn't he?" Azziz observed, peering closer at the skeleton's face. Tentatively, he reached out a finger and touched one of the pointed lower canines. "Just look at those teeth—they look like they could take a bite right out of you. I would not wish to bump into him or his friends if they were hungry. Well, when he was alive, at least!" Laughing at his own joke, Azziz didn't notice the peculiar expression that had come over Eliana's face.

She felt strange, suddenly, and disoriented, almost as if she were in two places at once. Azziz's words had conjured up a strange almost-vision, and Eliana had the distinct impression that if she closed her eyes and opened them again, she would no longer be in the tent, or in the camp, or even in the desert. Instead, she had a fleeting impression of being in a jungle—dense, green growth all around, and a thick, sun-speckled canopy of emerald leaves overhead. Even more, she was swamped by a feeling of fear, gut-deep and wrenching, accompanied by an instinctive knowledge that something unknown, something dangerous, was out there. Out there, and hunting her. Then, no sooner had that thought come, than it was gone—she had the feeling of being comforted, pulled close to someone larger, stronger, vastly more powerful than her, and reassured. She could almost smell the spicy scent of his skin; almost feel the heat and strength in the arm that held her close.

_Do not be afraid. They cannot harm me._

"Miss Bernstein—Eliana—are you all right?" Azziz's tone was worried, now, and he grabbed her by the shoulders, giving her a tiny shake to bring her out of her almost trance-like state. Swaying, Eliana made a supreme effort to clear the images from her mind, and almost succeeded. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't form the words, and her vision swam before her eyes, collapsing in on itself and forming a point of light at the end of a long, black tunnel. And then she passed out.

Ardeth was the first to reach her, running in from the bright sunlight outside the tent and grabbing her by the shoulders just as her knees gave way beneath her. Swinging her limp body up into his arms, he whirled towards Azziz in a billow of black robes, fury blazing from his narrowed eyes.

"What in Allah's name did you say to her?" he hissed at Azziz, spitting the Arabic out through clenched teeth. He looked down at Eliana, deeply afraid of what this little episode might mean. Had this idiot said something, or done something, to trigger her latent memories? If that had happened, Ardeth knew that he would cheerfully kill the ignorant fool.

Azziz threw his hands up in protest, a gesture implying total ignorance—and innocence. "I did nothing! I said nothing! Nothing at all that could have caused a reaction like this!"

"Perhaps she has been working too long, or she has had too much of the heat," Hassan offered mildly, only now rising from his seat and coming forward to offer assistance. "The desert sun is fierce, and must be respected. Miss Bernstein has been working for hours without a break, and without even sitting down. I can corroborate Rais' account of this—nothing he has said or done would have caused her to faint like this."

Still glaring, Ardeth looked down at Eliana, who was out cold. He needed to get her somewhere quiet, somewhere cool—if such a place could be found near midday in the desert—and let her lie down until she recovered somewhat. Then he could find out what had happened, and if she had remembered anything. Anything from…before.

"Where is her tent? She needs to lie down, out of the sun, and rest. She also needs water." His voice carried authority, and the words were not a suggestion, but a command. Azziz seemed a bit taken aback that a mere laborer would presume to leap into the midst of this and begin issuing orders, but he was too much the diplomat to point that out. Wordlessly, he nodded, and pointed towards the tents.

"Follow me," he offered, and walked off towards Eliana's tent.

Ardeth began to follow him, but then stopped. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Hassan, who was staring at him, a measuring look in his obsidian eyes.

"Bring some water to Miss Bernstein's tent. Quickly, please." Without waiting for a response, he turned again, in a swirl of black, and walked off after Azziz, cradling Eliana's body in his arms.

Hassan stared after him for a few moments, wondering what to make of this commanding presence so thinly disguised beneath the simple robes of a desert wanderer. To be sure, there was more to Ardeth Bay than first met the eye. A small smile hovering around his thin-lipped mouth, Hassan procured a container of water from the useless cooler and unhurriedly went after the little trio.

* * *

She dreamed. In her subconscious mind, the almost-memory of lush, verdant green faded and she was no longer in the jungle, but traveling through the desert, at the head of a caravan. The sun beat down on her, a sizzling white heat strong enough to blind the eyes and fry skin off the bone. The unmerciful heat and the odd, rhythmic swaying of the unbelievably smelly animal she was riding on combined to make Eliana feel queasy at best, flat-out nauseated at worst. They had been riding for hours, she knew, and the dry heat, bright sunlight and pungent smell of the camels was enough to make anyone ill.

Above and beyond all that, Eliana felt…odd. She knew she was dreaming, a variation of the same dream she always had since arriving here. She inhabited the same body she always did in her dreams—tall, olive-skinned, voluptuous. Everything about her body was the same, except perhaps for the clothes. In her previous dreams, Eliana had found herself clothed in next to nothing; this time, she was definitely more conservatively dressed, although in this case, conservative was definitely a relative term. She took in the black garment she was wearing—gauzy, light, trimmed in gold, featuring a plunging neckline and slits at the sides that reached to mid-thigh. Definitely on the daring side of conservative, but still more sensible for trekking through the desert on the back of a camel than was her usual filmy, sheer dream-wear.

No, it was not the body, or the clothing, that felt odd. It was a sensation more internal—more a mental sensation of discomfort. It felt like her mind was too…_full_? That was an odd choice of word to describe the peculiar sensation, but at the same time, Eliana knew that it fit. It felt as though there were too many thoughts, or…_feelings_—that was it—crammed inside her skull, all mixed up and struggling for dominance.

The mixture of emotions was an odd one, too. On the one hand, she felt an overpowering and almost child-like joy. Relief and happiness and…love?…mixed and mingled together to form a powerful concoction that danced through her veins and made her almost giddy with delighted anticipation. She felt as though she had finally reached the end of a long, frightening, and overpoweringly lonely journey—an end that she had begun to despair of ever reaching. The other set of emotions residing in her mind was just as strong, but of a darker nature—a sense of awe, tinged with fear; passion, shaded with horror; a simmering anger; and beneath it all, a feeling of anticipation of a different sort—less child-like and more cunning; less that of realizing a cherished dream and more that of commencing a meticulously crafted plan. She felt a coldness of heart that hadn't been there before, either—an innate selfishness, but not the egocentric selfishness of a child or a spoiled, pampered princess. Rather, it was a self-centeredness borne of ruthless ambition and cold disdain for others—a deep, dark current of blackness streaking through the fabric of her soul.

Eliana shivered, feeling unexpectedly cold, despite the sun's relentless heat. She felt alone, suddenly—alone and afraid. Not once, in all this time since she'd been on the dig, had she dreamed without having the priest appear in some way. Glancing to the right, she saw him there, resplendent and regal in a high-collared, flowing black robe. He sat, comfortable and alert, on the high, swaying saddle of the camel, his black-gloved hands gripping the beast's reins with casual confidence. His face was impassive as he glanced back at the caravan following behind, radiating the arrogant disinterest of one born to lead.

As if he could feel the weight of her eyes on him, the priest looked towards her, and the casual indifference faded away. In its place was a look of passion and possession so hot, so intense, that Eliana felt her skin growing warm under its onslaught. There was love in that look—love, and joy, and relief—pride, too, and something else…some unholy sparkle that Eliana had never seen there before, and wasn't happy to see now. It frightened her, for she had begun to care about this handsome, arrogant man, even though she knew, in the rational, logical part of her mind, that he was only a construct of her slumbering subconscious.

This new gleam in his eye was threatening—not to her, for she knew he would never harm her; he would give his life for her, if necessary. No, this glint was dangerous in a different way, an almost foreign presence in the familiar brown depths. It was almost as if an imp from hell had taken up residence in the priest and was peering out through his eyes. She glanced away quickly, shaken and disturbed at the thought, and her dream-persona took over.

"What is troubling you?" The priest asked soothingly, seeming to read her mind and pick up on the turbulence there.

"What will happen when we reach Ahm Shere?" she countered; worried about the plan they had thrown together on the train before reaching Karnak. Before everything had…changed. She had been in control before, had been cool and calm and certain of her goals and desires. Ever since they had completed the ritual at the temple pool, she had felt this odd sensation of differentness, and she resented and feared it. It was making her second-guess herself, and she could not afford to waver in her intent.

"When we reach Ahm Shere, we will use the bracelet to release the Scorpion King from his imprisonment, and I will defeat him," he answered her, his tone implying an almost bored certainty that this would all come to pass.

"But the bracelet cannot be removed from the boy's arm. How can we use it to unlock anything?"

"If the legends are to be believed, the bracelet should detach itself, once its use as a guide is complete. Or, if we do not reach Ahm Shere in time, the bracelet will destroy the boy." This last, he added with a slight shrug. "Either way, the bracelet will be freed."

"And then what? To control the Scorpion King and his minions, you must defeat him in battle. Can you do this?" She realized she sounded almost shrill, and consciously calmed herself. "The Scorpion King is the champion of Anubis, channeling the god's power through him…"

"You forget, my love, that I have my own source of power," he stated, and the hellish light was back in his eyes. "I have no doubt that the power of the Hom Dai is more than equal to the Scorpion King. This curse that the Med Jai have gifted me with will become our tool for their ultimate destruction. Once that is achieved, you and I together will be unstoppable, invincible…immortal."

"But what of O'Connell and Ne…the woman?" she asked. "They possess the Scepter of Osiris…"

"I do not need the Scepter. Perhaps if I were a mere mortal…" He smiled, a humorless twitch of his full, sensual lips. "But again, the Med Jai have made that irrelevant."

"If you say it is so…" she acquiesced, bowing her head in submission. "But tell me this, then," and her head came back up, almost in challenge. "What is the Scepter, that it possesses such power?"

"The Scepter of Osiris is a powerful instrument," he explained, and a faraway look came into his eyes, as if he were traveling down old paths, uprooting old memories, revisiting lessons once learned. "A tool for either destruction or salvation. Depending upon how it is used, and the heart of the person who wields it, it is a weapon empowered with either sending the soul of the damned to eternal torment or freeing it from damnation. It is said to hold the power of Osiris himself, and to be one of the keys to the underworld."

"The power to free the damned…" she mused, turning the thought around in her mind. "If it can be used as such, can it not be used to free any damned soul? Or is its power specific to the curse that binds the Scorpion King?

He turned to her, his eyes speculative. Again, he seemed to reflect inwardly before he spoke.

"The knowledge I gained in service to Osiris taught that the Scepter's power was of a more universal nature. Not everyone is aware of its full…potential, although it is central to the legends of the Scorpion King. Certainly," he reflected, "if the Med Jai knew of its other uses, they would have found and destroyed—or hidden—it long ago."

"So it could be used to break other curses, as well," she stated, looking at him consideringly.

"If one were of a mind—or heart—to use it in such a way, yes. It could be."

"And you are not of such a mind? Or heart?" she asked him.

"My love, the Med Jai had no idea what a gift they gave me—gave us—those three thousand years ago." He laughed—a harsh, mocking sound. "We have become more than they could have dreamed we would become, even in their worst nightmares. Our love has endured through the ages, survived longer than the temples of the gods, and outlived the pharaohs. We are on the brink of invincibility, of immortality. Why should I wish to…make use of the Scepter's full power?"

"Why indeed?" she agreed, and then looked away, smiling a tight, cold smile that didn't reach her eyes or warm the growing cold that was encircling her heart.

* * *

"Eliana. Eliana--wake up!" Ardeth knelt by Eliana in her tent, rubbing her cold hands between his large, warm ones. She was chalk-white and freezing cold, and he was growing increasingly worried. She had been unconscious for a long time now, and he was beginning to fear that there was something more behind this faint than just too much sun.

Suddenly, Rais Azziz appeared at the tent flap, holding out a small vial.

"She is still unconscious, then?" he asked. "Here—this may help."

Ardeth accepted the smelling salts with a nod of appreciation, quickly removed the bottle's cap and passed it back and forth under Eliana's nose. Thankfully, the foul-smelling concoction did its job quickly, and she coughed violently, struggling to sit up and batting her hand at her nose to wave away the stench. Opening her eyes, she saw Ardeth kneeling there, still holding the vial, a worried frown on his face, and she focused on his dark features.

"What…happened?" The words came out a dry whisper, scratching past her dry, cracked lips.

"You seem to have had a bit too much sun," Azziz offered cheerfully. "One has to watch out for that, out here in the desert," he added, as though he spent every day out here in the sand and sun instead of behind a desk in an air-conditioned embassy office.

Ardeth handed the vial back to Azziz.

"Thank you for the smelling salts. I will stay with Ms. Bernstein until she is fully recovered." Turning back to Eliana, he effectively dismissed Azziz. Shrugging, the nondescript Sudanese turned to go.

"Glad you're feeling better, Ms. Bernstein. Get some rest now."

Eliana stared at Ardeth, who silently watched her in return. Neither seemed overly inclined to speak. Finally, wanting to ease the tension that was building in the small, confined space of the tent, he picked up the bottle of water that Hassan had brought earlier, and handed it to Eliana.

"Here—please drink. You are dehydrated. It will help."

She took the bottle, careful not to let her fingers touch his. The water was warm, but wonderfully wet, and there was plenty of it. After downing half the bottle, she wiped a hand over her mouth and managed a mumbled "thank you."

Ardeth sighed tiredly, and rubbed his hands over his eyes.

"Are you truly feeling better?" he asked. "You were unconscious for a long time."

Eliana pushed herself upright and scooted backwards on her sleeping bag. Crossing her legs, and pressing her fingers to her temples, she sat for a few minutes with her eyes closed. She felt like hell—her head was pounding, her mouth felt like cotton, and she was dizzy and disoriented, but she'd walk barefoot through the fires of hell before she admitted as much to Ardeth Bay. Gritting her teeth, she opened her eyes, and fixed him with a baleful green glare.

"Yes, I feel better." Hopefully, he would stop feeling responsible now, and just leave her alone. She waited for a minute or two, but when he showed no signs of getting up to go, she added, "I'll be fine. You can leave now."

His level gaze never leaving her, Ardeth completely ignored her words, instead asking her the question that had plagued him since she fainted.

"Do you have any idea what brought this on? Were you feeling ill? Were you out in the sun for too long?"

She shook her head, puzzled over it herself. She was completely baffled as to why she was suddenly so prone to fits of dizziness, and fainting, and nervousness in general. It was unlike her, and made her feel weak and vulnerable, and she hated feeling that way. It was too much like that other time in her life…_No_, she told herself, pushing the thought away. _I won't think about that_.

"No, I was feeling fine, and I wasn't out in the sun this morning any longer than on any other day. I don't know what happened. I've never fainted before in my life…" _Liar, _her mind countered.

"Did Azziz, or Hassan, say or do something to upset you?" Ardeth persisted, needing to know if Eliana's faint was prompted by simple heat exhaustion, or something more ominous.

Again, she shook her head.

"No, they were fine. Perfectly polite." She paused, then added, "Well, to be honest, they were starting to get on my nerves, just because they had been watching me work for so long, and Azziz has been asking endless questions…"

Ardeth smiled. He, too, had noticed the diplomat's tendency towards nosiness.

"But they didn't say or do anything purposely upsetting…Actually, Azziz had just made some silly comment about the little skeleton's teeth, when I started to feel odd…"

He was instantly alert. "Odd, how?" he asked, his dark eyes watching her closely.

"Odd, as in…odd. I don't know," she trailed off, defensively. "If I had to call it something, I guess I'd say I had a feeling of…déjà vu or something. Not that I believe in that kind of thing," she added. "It was probably just too much sun, or standing for too long, or something."

"Déjà vu?" he pressed.

"Or something," Eliana corrected. She sighed, realizing that Ardeth was going nowhere and instead, seemed almost fixated with her fainting spell. "I had the weirdest feeling that I was somewhere else, and that I was…in danger, somehow. Kind of like…" her words lapsed again, as she remembered to whom she was talking.

"Like when you met me?" Ardeth offered, a hint of resigned weariness in his voice. To him, this fainting spell was looking worse and worse.

She shrugged. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but…yes. Almost." She considered again. "Well, a lot like it, anyway. Don't worry, though—I don't believe in déjà vu or any of that kind of thing."

"What 'kind of thing' would that be?" he probed, gently but relentlessly.

"Oh, déjà vu, bad karma, feng shui, past life regressions—you know," she went on, "the New Age junk that's becoming popular in American and Europe?"

"Why do you not believe in such things?" Ardeth asked, intrigued with her strong rejection of such notions, even though he was privately relieved. If Eliana didn't seem inclined to lean towards mystical explanations for otherwise unexplainable phenomenon, it was certainly for the better. "After all, many cultures much more ancient than those of Europe and the West have adhered to such beliefs for millennia."

"Well, because there's no logical or scientific reason that can explain it, that's why. And I don't put much stock in the bizarre or supernatural," she scoffed.

Suddenly, she smiled, and Ardeth had to marvel at what that smile did to her. _And to him_, a devilish, unwelcome little voice in the back of his head chimed in. That one smile softened her whole face, lit up her eyes so they sparkled like sunlight on the Nile, and made her look…_breathtaking_, the annoying little voice supplied.

"What is amusing you?" Ardeth asked, suddenly anxious to change the subject, to silence the imp that had suddenly taken up unwelcome residence in his mind.

Eliana glanced at Ardeth, still smiling, and explained. "I suddenly realized I sounded just like my grandmother," she said. "It was almost like her words were coming out of my mouth—'Now Eliana, don't go getting all excited over nothing,'" she mimicked. "'There's a logical explanation for everything.'"

"She is a very logical person, then?" Ardeth asked.

"She was," Eliana corrected, sadness coloring her words. "She's gone now. Died about five years ago." The light-heartedness left her eyes.

"I still miss her."

"You were close?"

"Grandma was my rock." Her voice quavered. "Everything I am today, I owe to her." She looked up at him, still not wanting to trust him, still afraid, but desperately needing to talk to someone. She was becoming worried about the strange dreams and odd sensations she'd been having since arriving in the desert. Not since she was a child, and her mother had just died, had she felt this…unbalanced. And she didn't dare risk bringing on any of the experiences she'd had during those times. So maybe it was better to simply talk to someone about what was happening, and be reassured that she was sane, and normal, and not in any danger of going crazy. In some part of her mind, some level controlled more by instinct than by reason, she realized that perhaps Ardeth Bay was the one person, apart from her beloved grandmother, who could listen to the tale she was about to tell and not think her crazy. She searched his face, her eyes haunted, wondering whether or not she was about to make a terrible mistake in trusting this man.

Ardeth said nothing, just sat silently, waiting for her to continue. Finally, his patience was rewarded, and she began to speak, the words coming slowly at first, then tumbling over each other as they came pouring up from the depths to which she had relegated them in her mind.

"My mother died when I was six years old. Ovarian cancer," Eliana began. She did not meet his eyes now at all. Instead, she seemed overly absorbed with watching her fingers pick at the seam of the sleeping bag that she held twisted in her hands. "I had a hard time dealing with it. Dad—I love my dad, don't get me wrong—well, he dealt with it all by throwing himself into his work and ignoring everything else. I was pretty much on my own, except for the housekeeper. Dad hired her when Mom got sick, and kept her on…afterwards, to watch me. For about a month after Mom died, I was fine. Too fine. I played, talked, laughed, just ignored the whole thing—massive denial—pretended that Mom had just gone away on a trip, and would be back any day.

"Dad wouldn't—couldn't, maybe—talk to me about it, so he just ignored the whole thing, too. The housekeeper—she was a very religious woman from South America—she thought that I was strange, and I think she was a little scared of me. I was acting really manic and way too happy, considering I had just lost my mother to a pretty terrible disease. Anyway, one day I heard her talking on the phone to a friend of hers, and I heard her saying something about me, and _El Diablo_, and the gist of it was that she thought I was possessed. She didn't know that I spoke Spanish pretty well already, thanks to Dad and his books and language lessons, so I understood almost everything she said. I didn't like her much anyway—she was too old, and pretty distant and cold, and perverse little six-year-old that I was, I decided to give her a little taste of what she expected."

Eliana risked a quick look up at Ardeth, trying to judge from his expression what was going on in his mind, but his face was an unreadable mask. He sat quietly, patiently, just waiting for her to continue. Taking a breath, she plunged back in to the story.

"Now, mind you, I was an archaeologist's child, so I had a pretty good awareness, even at that age, of the superstitions and customs of ancient people. Granted, Dad had always been more interested in Egypt and the Middle Eastern cultures, but he'd given me books and read me stories about the ancient American cultures, too. I knew all about the old Mayan and Aztec legends, and believe me, some of them are pretty bloody and spooky."

She looked up at him again, and this time Ardeth nodded. She was unsure of whether his nod signaled understanding, or a prompt for her to continue, but she had come this far already, so she went on.

"Well, it didn't take long," she sighed, "for me to convince the poor woman that she had been right all along, and that I was possessed by spirits. All I had to do was sit on the floor, staring off into space, muttering under my breath. Generally, I muttered in Latin, since Dad had started teaching me that, too. Close enough-sounding to Spanish to be almost recognizable to the housekeeper, just off enough to be scary. Every once in a while, I'd throw in some Arabic, too. That scared her even more. She'd run off, making the sign of the cross, and call her friends and tell them about the 'devil child.' I was having great fun."

Ardeth smiled, unable to help himself. The thought of such a precocious, mischievous, overly intelligent child playing a prank like that on a superstitious old woman charmed him. He himself had been a trial to his elders when he was young, and he could appreciate the naughtiness of Eliana's prank with the understanding of a kindred spirit. She met his eyes again, and the amused understanding and acceptance she saw there warmed her somewhat, and she smiled a tiny smile, feeling the first tentative threads of a bond forming between them.

"Dad, of course, was oblivious, and I intended for him to stay that way. If he'd found out, he would have stopped my fun. So I kept on like that, for probably a month or so. Then, I started getting bored. The housekeeper had sort of gotten used to my strange 'episodes,' as she called them, and was starting to just ignore me. So I decided to escalate the game a bit. The next time I entered a 'trance,' I started looking around and pointing, like I was seeing things. That got her all upset again, so I was happy. The thing was, not long after that, I really did have an 'episode.' The housekeeper had left for the day, and dad was buried in his books, and I suddenly got really tired and went to lay down…" she paused, and the haunted look was back in her eyes.

"I remember feeling very sleepy, and hearing…something. Voices, maybe, in my head, chanting. A ritual of some sort, I thought. Very musical sounding, very somber. Almost like a funeral dirge. The more I heard, the sleepier I got. Finally, I fell asleep, or at least I thought I did. When I woke up, Dad was shaking me, and I was screaming bloody murder, and…"

Ardeth no longer looked amused, or even entertained. Instead, he wore an expression of almost painful intensity. He tensed for her next words, somehow knowing that they would not be a description of a harmless child's prank. Eliana, though, seemed hesitant to continue.

"Go on, Eliana. I am listening," he prompted gently, reaching over to enfold her hand in his. For once, she didn't pull away, but seemed to be grateful for the warmth of the contact. The tingling sensation when they touched was beginning to become less noticeable, too, and he wondered at that. When she spoke again, she kept her eyes locked with his, and her voice was flat and expressionless.

"I had taken most of my clothes off, and I had apparently gotten a marker and drawn lines and squiggles all over myself. From what Dad said, I was screaming something in some language that he didn't quite recognize, and I had a butcher knife in my hand, holding it up to my stomach."

Her eyes probed his, searching for the distance and derision she felt certain she'd see reflected there. Instead, she was surprised to find understanding and compassion, and something like…resignation? It was almost as though he wasn't at all surprised at the weird tale she had just told him. Almost as though he had…expected it, somehow.

"And that was the last 'episode?'" he asked, still holding her hand in his, and his dark brown eyes were gentle as they searched hers.

"No, unfortunately, it wasn't," Eliana answered him, shaking her head tiredly. "At first, Dad thought that it was just an isolated incident—some delayed reaction to Mom's death. But it wasn't. The housekeeper quit after the first time I grabbed a knife when she was there, and even though my dad made arrangement to stay home with me full-time after that, I started having the spells more and more frequently. Finally, Dad felt he had no choice but to put me in a…hospital." She closed her eyes, fighting back the memories. "They had me in restraints and on quite the mixture of drugs, and I was pretty much a zombie. I don't remember a lot about what happened while I was there." She shuddered.

"I do remember, though, how I got out."

"Yes?" He gripped her hand tightly, overwhelmed with a deep sympathy for the child she had been, and the fear she must have experienced. No matter who or what she had been in a previous life, she had started over in this one, and the innocent child she had been had suffered for the sins of a past she had no knowledge of living.

"My grandmother—my dad's mom—came for me. We weren't terribly close at the time—she traveled quite a lot, and she had only come to visit briefly for Mom's funeral. But Dad was pretty desperate at the time, and he called her, and…she came. I don't know what she thought when she first saw me in the hospital, because I must have looked pretty bad. But whatever she thought, she kept it to herself. I remember seeing her come into my room that first day. She was wearing this beautiful navy blue suit, and she smelled wonderful. Chanel Number Five—that was the perfume she always wore—I can never smell that stuff without remembering Grandma," she added with a sad smile. "Anyway, she sat on the edge of my bed, and she hugged me tight, and told me that everything was going to be all right, and that I would get better, and go home. And I guess I was desperate myself, because I believed her.

"She came to see me every day, and she talked to me, and she made me talk to her. She forced me to talk about Mom's death, and she bullied the doctors into taking me off the medication, and she brought in the best psychologists she could buy, and they talked to me and made me talk to them. Every once in a while, I'd have a small episode, but they were never very bad after that, and they got further and further apart. Finally, they stopped all together."

"And then they let you go home?" Ardeth asked, and he suddenly realized that he was massaging her palm with his thumb, trying to impart some reassurance through the simple touch. Too late, he realized that he was being drawn into a trap of cosmic proportions, and he mentally railed at fate's sadistic whimsy. But he would not, not for anything, stop Eliana from telling this story, and he sensed that she was drawing some comfort from him, so he continued the calming caress.

"Not right away. First, they made me take all these tests, and psychoanalyzed me for weeks. In the end, they decided that the episodes had just been delayed stress brought on by my mother's death. With all the counseling I'd had, they figured I was over it. So they let me go home.

"Grandma came home with us, and didn't leave again. She sort of took over the role of lady of the house, and Dad was able to get back to his studying and his traveling, and he was happy. I had my grandma, and in a way, the doctors were right. The counseling helped me deal with Mom being gone, and I was better, too. I didn't have any relapses, or anything, so I figured I was over and done with it."

"And were you?"

"Yeah, I was. Like I said before, Grandma was a very logical person, and didn't believe in anything she couldn't see or feel or touch or taste or…well, you get the idea. She decided that I had been left alone too much, just surrounded by old books and strange artifacts, and what I needed in my life was direction. Well, she gave me that, in spades." Eliana laughed, remembering.

"Because I had a natural aptitude for languages, Grandma enrolled me in a private school and made sure that they nurtured that particular gift. She was always an adventurous sort, and so during my school vacations, we'd go with Dad on his digs. Grandma always loved those—she'd get to stay in the nice hotels in the cities, and I'd hang out with Dad at the digs. I loved it. We were kind of a strange little family, but we loved each other, and between them, Grandma and Dad took good care of me. Grandma was the one who pushed me into linguistics in college, although Dad would have been happy if I'd followed his footsteps entirely and went into archaeology."

"Your grandmother sounds like a strong woman," Ardeth observed, remembering his own grandmother, and how much she had influenced his life, as well.

"She was the strongest person I know, and I always wanted to grow up to be just like her. She was logical, and practical, and in control, and she was always saying that I could do anything or be anything that I wanted, as long as I took charge of my life and had a plan. She didn't think that anyone or anything could stop you from realizing your dreams, unless you let them," Eliana explained, and Ardeth could see very plainly how much this woman had influenced her. "She was forever telling me that all I had to do was reach for my dreams, and as long as I didn't hurt anyone else in trying to achieve them, I could do anything."

"Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman," he offered.

"She was wise, and she was kind, and she was strong, and everyone loved her," Eliana said, nodding in agreement. "I think that she had to be that way, to have survived."

"Survived?" Ardeth asked, jerking his head up in surprise.

"Yes, survived," she reinforced, and then explained, "I'm part Jewish, at least on Dad's side of the family. Grandma was a Holocaust survivor. She was in the concentration camps in Germany when she was a teenager. She met my grandfather there."

Ardeth said nothing. He knew, of course, of the horrors that had been visited upon the Jews in Nazi Germany, and had even met men and women who had survived the camps. To him, they were heroes; people whose will and determination and sheer heart had carried them through an unspeakable era of human history. For Eliana's grandmother to have survived such a horror so early in her life was further testimony to the fact that she was an exceptional woman.

"Grandma always said that the lessons she learned there stayed with her throughout her whole life. She said that living through such terror, such suffering, marked a person for life, and either made them stronger, or destroyed them."

"That is very true," Ardeth agreed. "It is the trials in life and the dark valleys that one walks through that forge character."

"That's exactly what she used to say," Eliana nodded. "My grandmother always liked to tell me stories about how some of the most unlikely people in the camps were actually the strongest leaders, and the ultimate survivors. Some of the people she thought would be the first to succumb turned out to be the ones that ended up shoring up everyone else's courage and helping them to carry on throughout the whole ordeal."

Ardeth was quiet for a moment, and then observed, "One would think that the strongest and most powerful individuals, or the most ruthless, would be the ones to ultimately survive. Odd, isn't it, how the opposite is true in so many cases?" He watched her carefully, as she thought about this. Her response could give him a great deal of insight into the person she had become in this life.

"Grandma always said that the most powerful and ruthless people in the camps did do well, at least early on," Eliana affirmed. "They made deals with the German guards, and because of their wealth and status, prior to the Holocaust, they had some powerful connections with the outside, and fared better than the others. As time went on though, those same people ended up turning on one another, and they simply self-destructed. By then, they had alienated everyone else, and had no one to turn to. Time, and circumstances, had pretty much reduced everyone to the same level, and the ones that learned to work together, to support each other, were the ones that ultimately prevailed.

"Grandpa was like that—he was one of the kindest, most gentle souls you'd ever meet. He had an inner strength, though, that was phenomenal. He died quite a while ago." Again, sadness tinged her voice. "Grandma said after he was gone that she'd never marry again, because she'd never find anyone to equal Grandpa. Once you loved someone like that, you could never love anyone in the same way again." Her voice was wistful, and Ardeth could understand why. One seldom came upon such remarkable individuals, and Eliana was fortunate to have had two such souls in her life. Slowly, he released her hand, and his eyes searched her face as he shifted position. He had been kneeling there in the tent for a long time, and his legs felt stiff and cramped.

Eliana looked somberly at him, and heaved a huge sigh. Uncrossing her legs, she stretched them out in front of her, and grimaced. She, too, was feeling cramped and crowded in the small tent. And yet, for all the physical discomfort, she felt curiously better than she had in a long while. Talking to Ardeth Bay had been oddly comforting, and she was amazed. Who would have guessed that she would have revealed this much of her past, bared her soul to this degree, to him, of all people? And that by doing so, she would have felt so…unburdened. It was almost as if the heavy secret of her past had become lighter by the simple act of sharing it with someone. Ardeth Bay was a most unlikely "someone," but telling him about her past had seemed almost…right, somehow, almost as though it was exactly what she was supposed to do. And she couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, during the course of the long afternoon, a fragile, tentative bond had been forged between the two of them, there in the hot confines of her tent. At the very least, she was no longer uncomfortable with him, or afraid, and she would no longer scorn his company or his presence. No, on the contrary, she found herself almost liking him.

Ardeth, for his part, was more troubled than ever before. Not only had Eliana herself, through her story, confirmed undeniably who she had been, but the tale she told had also established that her previous life was not some dormant and long-dead part of her past. Rather, Ardeth imagined it as a struggling, angry entity, waiting for the right opportunity to emerge and take control.

What he knew of reincarnation was limited to that which his ancestors and Med Jai brothers had passed on to him, but it was enough. He knew that a person's soul was formed from two halves, which lived together in harmony until death, when they separated. The _ka_, or life force, of an individual, was what was commonly referred to as the soul, and it was that which remained constant throughout eternity, through the endless cycles of death and rebirth. It was the _ka_ that was the individual and unique signature of a person's psyche, and it was the _ka_ within Eliana that he had first recognized. The _ba_, on the other hand, was the personality of an individual, and at death, it was the _ba_ that undertook the perilous journey through the afterlife before finally reaching the lands of the West. Once the soul had passed the test of the scales, the _ba_ and the _ka_ were reunited to form the _akh_—the ultimate form of the blessed dead.

Eliana, of course, had no way of knowing that in her previous life, the _ba_ that had marked the unique personality of her predecessor had, for her sins, been cursed to wander forever in the underworld, unable to pass the test of the scales, and unable to be reunited with the _ka_. The only way such a thing could be achieved, after the curse had been placed, was to use the most foul and arcane methods of retrieving the _ba_ from the underworld, and by using magic, reuniting it with the _ka_ in the reanimated body of the dead. Such a feat required two things—the spells and incantations contained within the Black Book of the Dead, and a human blood sacrifice. In all of history, in all of the legends, Ardeth knew of only two times such a thing had been attempted, and only one time it had been achieved. And both of those times were disasters, leading to death, and more curses, and, for the Med Jai, an eternity of watching, ever vigilant, ever fearful of the plagues that waited just beneath the shifting sands of the desert.

No, Eliana would have no clue at all about what marked her soul. The _ka_ within her was eternal and unchanging, the same now as it had been three thousand years before, but her _ba_ was new, as unique and different as an individual snowflake was different from its brethren. What difference that made, Ardeth had no clue, but he had to believe that there was some meaning to it, in the end.

And, in the end, as he stood to leave the tent, Ardeth carried with him the strange feeling that she had somehow been added to the growing list of people he was charged to protect. Which was ludicrous, considering the damage she could unleash simply by virtue of being who she was—or who she had been. She wouldn't even have to _want_ to be the cause of the cataclysm—her mere existence and presence here spoke to fate's quirky and sadistic nature. And Ardeth had seen and heard too much in his lifetime to discount the machinations of fate. Still, he couldn't shrug off the illogical desire he had to protect her from the conniving whims of the gods. He was convinced that somehow, this time, this woman was very different that she had been, and would not willingly cause harm to anyone. Instead, he found her compassionate, intelligent, generous and charmingly empathetic. She seemed to be a genuinely good person, who wouldn't willingly stand back and let anyone suffer. And that was the crux and essence of his dilemma. She was perhaps a good, compassionate person this time around, but her soul was still twined eternally with one who was, in Ardeth's mind, the very antithesis of goodness.

He knew, even from their brief conversation, that Eliana would not sit back and idly watch while someone she loved suffered. No, she would jump in with both feet and do whatever it took to rescue them. And that newly minted aspect of her nature added a whole new element to the highly volatile mix that was brewing here.

"Are you feeling well enough to return to the dig, or will you rest here?" he asked.

"Actually, I'm feeling pretty good," she smiled up at him, and that small gesture of friendship caused a funny twist deep in his gut. "I think I'll go work on the skeleton some more before dinner. Maybe Hassan and Azziz are off doing something else by now, and won't be looking over my shoulder."

Eliana began to rise, and he extended a hand to help her up. He was chagrined to discover that once she was standing, he felt a twinge of reluctance over releasing her. Despite that feeling, release her he did, but the devil that had somehow been released inside him prompted him to lean towards her and lightly press his lips to her forehead before turning and leaving the tent. Had he seen the expression on her face, he would have laughed, because it was identical to the one he was wearing—shock, and confusion, and perhaps something more.

* * *

Eric walked down the narrow passageway, pushing past rocks and debris and chunks of what might once have been jungle vegetation, but was now rotting puddles of gunk. The smell in the place was unbelievable, and the heat was oppressive, and he was hard pressed to keep down the breakfast he had eaten several hours ago. Whatever had happened to Ahm Shere, in its final moments, must have been cataclysmic, judging from the wreckage all around him.

They had been exploring the pyramid for days, now, and had discovered that the only passageway that was clear of debris was the first one they had found—the one extending to the left and right from the doorway Eric's shovel had pierced. That passage was reasonably high, and though narrow, easily allowed a man carrying equipment to walk unhindered through its length. The passageway to the right had been completely blocked by fallen rock about ten meters from the door, so they had concentrated their first explorations on what lay to the left. At the far end of the hall, a doorway had allowed access to the pyramid's interior, and they had eagerly carried their flashlights and equipment through, expecting to find some evidence of decay, if only from the passage of time, but what met their eyes was even more dramatic. The sheer volume of the carnage was impressive—massive chunks of golden stone lay everywhere, the floor had buckled up in places, and there were huge holes and yawning crevices in the ceiling. It looked as though someone had taken a wrecking ball to the structure, and then swept it down beneath the sand. An earthquake, they speculated, could have been the only thing to cause such destruction; but Ahm Shere was located far away from any fault lines.

Professor Bernstein, after that initial shock of discovery, had ordered everyone to take extra safety precautions, because they weren't sure how stable the structure was. Parts of it looked fairly sturdy, but other parts looked as though they'd collapse if a stray breath hit them in the wrong spot. Eric had been obediently cautious at first, but he was becoming accustomed to the wreckage surrounding him, and he was anxious to penetrate deeper into the pyramid's interior. If they continued moving this slowly, they'd never make any progress. So he pushed himself, and the students working with him, and they had now charted quite a bit of the pyramid's interior.

Bernstein, on the other hand, was lagging behind. He was still engrossed in photographing and sketching the massive main entry hall they had found at the end of the first passage. It was huge—towering several stories high, and though littered with rubble, the grand staircase leading down to the floor was still impressive. Once they threaded their way through the fallen stones, they had come upon an intricate design built in a mosaic pattern on the floor. On closer examination, Bernstein and Hamid declared it to be a seal bearing the cartouche of Anubis, thus identifying the god to which the temple pyramid was dedicated. And no big surprise, considering the legends.

Past that grand entry hall lay a smaller temple area, accessed simultaneously by several small tunnels. That area must have borne the brunt of the catastrophe that had rocked Ahm Shere, as it was in much worse shape than either the main hall or any of the tunnels. Huge chunks of rocks littered the ground, and the ceiling was almost completely collapsed, with gigantic holes yawning above, opening up to the empty blackness of the pyramid's upper levels. Even more interesting, this area was built in a semi-circular fashion, with the temple altar occupying a place of honor in the center of the circle, and appearing to almost be on an island, surrounded by a huge, deep, moat-like chasm. They had shone their lights into the pit when they first discovered it, but couldn't see the bottom, and when they dropped a stone into it to gauge the distance, found that the stone fell for a long time before finally sounding a distant, echoing _chink_ from the depths.

It was to that most heavily damaged area that Eric and Doug had returned today, meaning to have a closer look at the altar, and the gigantic metal gong that lay on its side near the pit. The metal work on the gong was amazing—great skill and detail had gone into its forging. After examining it closely, Eric took several photos, and then he and Doug decided to take a quick break for lunch. It was while they were sitting down, leaning back against the stone altar, that they noticed the small crack in the rock wall behind the temple.

Normally, in an area that had sustained such extensive damage, Eric wouldn't have thought twice about a crack in the wall. Indeed, there were major cracks and crannies splitting through most of the pyramid's interior walls. What made him notice this one, though, was its straight lines, and its overall thinness and symmetry. It looked less a result of a natural disaster, and more the work of a skilled mason. If Eric had to describe it, he would have said that it looked like the outline of a small door.

"Hang on, Doug," he said, scrabbling over the piles of rubble behind the altar on his hands and knees. "I want to take a look at this before we eat."

"Whatever you say, boss man," agreed the always-amiable Doug, moving closer to take a better look himself.

Eric brushed some of the sand and dust away from the stone wall, and traced the fine line with his index finger. Sure enough, the crack was deep and even, and looked as though it had been purposely carved into the wall. Having traced the rectangular opening all the way around and not finding a latch, or any indication of how to open the door, if that was indeed what it was, Eric paused for a minute, considering his options. Finally, he braced his feet against the floor and gave a small push. Nothing happened, so he pushed again, marginally harder this time. Was it his imagination, or had he felt the wall give a bit with that one? Turning to Doug, he motioned him over.

"Come here a sec—give me a hand with this."

Obligingly, Doug picked a spot on the other edge of the doorway, and placed his hands on the rock slab.

"Okay—on the count of three, give it everything you've got, okay?"

Doug nodded, and Eric counted. On three, they both strained against the wall, arm muscles bulging, faces turning red, veins standing out on their necks. For all their effort, the door moved in maybe six centimeters, at the most, and then, with a grinding noise, stopped. Panting, Eric gestured for Doug to take a break, while he reconsidered.

"What do you think? Should we give it another try? Maybe it's just blocked by something on the other side…"

"Yeah, what the heck, let's give it another shot," Doug agreed. Then, pointing to a spot above the door, he asked, "Hey, what do you suppose those glyphs say?"

Eric looked up. Sure enough, there was a fine line of glyphs traced over the top portion of the doorway, and almost obscured by the cloying dust and grime. Brushing the dirt away and looking closer, he recognized them as the same style of writing that Hamid had found on the top of the pyramid and Eliana had later translated. Unable to decipher the strange markings himself, he shrugged.

"I dunno. I'll get Bernstein down here later and ask him what it says. Don't want to bother him now, though. I'd like to take a look at what's behind here, first."

This time, when the two men pushed against the door, they heard the grinding sound again, and suddenly, the wall seemed to give, and the doorway simply fell away, toppling to the floor on the other side with an echoing _thud_. A cloud of murky dust wafted up from the now-collapsed door, and a small passageway yawned open before them. A rank odor wafted up from the tunnel, and they could feel a cold ribbon of air brushing past their faces.

"Um, you can go down there first," Doug offered, backing up and waving a hand out to Eric.

Eric grinned. "Not feeling very brave?" He turned and rummaged through his backpack, finally withdrawing a hand-held lantern. They had brought several battery-powered work lights mounted on tripods down with them into the temple room, and while those served well enough to light up the altar area, they cast little light into the dark expanse of the tunnel. A lantern would have to do.

"You follow me, okay?" Eric told Doug, and then entered the tunnel. It was short, and narrow, and depressingly dark and damp, and within a few meters, Eric was feeling very claustrophobic. To make matters worse, the floor was pitched sharply downwards, and seemed to be coated with a slick, slimy substance that his work boots couldn't find much traction in. Shining the lantern's beam on the floor, Eric noticed that the slime was greenish-black, and looked like…algae? Sure enough, the tunnel's floor was coated with the same thick, brackish blanket of algae that coated the floors of sea caves. _But that didn't make sense,_ Eric thought. _Algae would mean that there was water down here, and they were in the middle of the desert…_

He continued on, carefully watching his step, and called back to Doug to take similar care. He could see the light from Doug's lantern bouncing off the walls to the right and left, and he felt slightly better that he wasn't all alone down here. Maybe, he thought, maybe I should just wait until John can come back here, too. He dismissed that notion quickly, though, eager to make a discovery on his own, and pressed on.

Abruptly, the tunnel ended, and Eric stepped out of the passageway and onto…air. Grappling wildly, his arms wind milling like mad, he struggled to regain his balance and not fall into the small lake he had just discovered. The light he carried went careening back down the tunnel and landed with a crash on the floor, its light flickering briefly from the impact. With one wild grab, Eric managed to clutch the rock walls of the tunnel exit, and brace himself with both arms. Steadying himself, he managed to get his feet beneath him again and regain his footing on the slippery surface of the floor that ended a half meter from the tunnel exit. Beyond that, it simply dropped away and the water began.

His heartbeat finally slowing to normal, now that he was on secure footing once more, Eric ran back a short distance into the tunnel and retrieved his light. Shining it on the walls of the room he was in, he saw that moss and algae grew thick on the exposed surfaces. Running the beam around the seam where the floor and walls met, he saw that he was actually standing on a narrow ledge that continued on around the entire circumference of the large circular room. But the room he was in was less a room and more a…grotto, Eric decided. The sluggish movement of the water in the lake reflected the beam of his lantern and made a moving mosaic of patterns on the walls and ceiling. The place smelled rank, but that was more from the algae and moss and less from the water. As a matter of fact, the water smelled surprisingly fresh, and, judging from the room's temperature, was quite cold. The sound of footsteps squishing down the tunnel alerted him to Doug's approach, and he realized he needed to call out a warning, and quickly.

Turning, he opened his mouth, just as Doug barreled into him from the tunnel. Both of them staggered, but Eric had braced himself before he turned, and he shoved back at Doug before the young man's momentum could propel them both into the water.

"Careful, dude!" he warned, shining his light out over the water's surface. "There's nothing here to stand on besides a balance beam and water!"

"Wow…" observed Doug, shining his light around the room, just as Eric had. For once, he was at a loss for words. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

"No," answered Eric, "and I've never read about anything like it, either. Pretty weird, for all of this water to be in here."

"What do you suppose it is?"

"Some sort of ritual chamber, maybe," guessed Eric, again shining his light over the water's surface. This time, he noticed something he had missed before—a series of small, circular stepping-stones, sticking up out of the water to a height of about twelve centimeters, leading out from the narrow ledge into the middle of the pool.

"Take a look at these, Doug," he gestured with the light. "Looks like steps to nowhere."

"Only one way to find out, boss," Doug suggested, with a laugh. "Why not take a walk? If you fall in, I'll do my best to fish you back out."

"Funny, peon. Actually, I might just take a quick peek and see what's out there. Be ready to do that fishing, okay?"

Nodding, Doug moved to the side and positioned his light so that their combined beams illuminated the series of stones. Tentatively, Eric stepped out onto the first stone, testing its stability with one foot, pushing as hard as he could to see if it would hold his weight. Slightly comforted by its lack of movement, he took a step out onto it, standing with both feet so that it was bearing his full weight. For a long second, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, with a smooth, almost hydraulic feel to it, the stone sank down into the water a few centimeters. Alarmed, Eric waved his arms again, but quickly regained his balance. He looked back at Doug, who simply shrugged, as if to say it was Eric's call on whether or not to go further. Gritting his teeth, Eric turned back to the stones, and reached out a foot to the next one, again testing it before stepping onto it with his full weight. Once more, the stone sank slightly, like the one before, but this time Eric was ready for it, and didn't lose his balance. He proceeded like that several more times, until he reached the last stone. Shining his light out into the dark waters of the small lake, he didn't see any more stones, and scratched his head in puzzlement.

"That's weird," he called to Doug, who was waiting back on the ledge, about five meters away. "They just end out here, in the middle of the lake. Guess I'll come back now, and we can go get Bernstein to take a look at it."

Still shaking his head in confusion as to why someone would bother building a stone path to nowhere, he was just about to turn and pick his way back to the ledge, when the water in the center of the lake began to churn.

Slowly at first, and then faster and faster, the center of the lake began to froth and bubble, as though something very large was beneath the surface and rising quickly. Shocked, Eric did nothing but stand there and watch as an immense form began to rise from the cold black water. The only thing he could see at first was a tall, dark figure, but as more and more of it cleared the water, he began to recognize the shape as a carved likeness of the god Anubis. Shining the light on the statue as it emerged, he noticed that its surface was bumpy and irregular, almost as if it had been fashioned from pebbles and rocks, instead of the smooth even surface of marble or stone. Still, it was a beautifully hewn likeness, the jackal head proudly supported on the god's body, the uneven surface picking up the stray beams of light from the lanterns and reflecting them back in scattered prisms and rainbows over the water.

The statue rose to a height of about four meters, and then with a loud _thunk_ that emanated from under the water, locked into place. Open-mouthed, Eric looked at it, and then back at Doug. Stretching out a tentative hand, he realized that the statue was just beyond his reach. Frustrated, he reached out again, and this time noticed that a much smaller stepping stone had appeared with the rising statue, about halfway between the stone he was now perched on and the statue's base.

With a little grunt of victory, he stepped onto the last stone, and waited for the sinking sensation, which came as expected. This time, though, the stone sank a bit deeper, and when it finally stopped, ended its downward journey with almost a clicking sound, as if a key had just been fitted into a lock. No sooner had Eric heard the slight click, than the statue suddenly…erupted, that was the only word for it.

From the eyes, nose, mouth and ears of the statue, a thick, viscous liquid began to pour. It ran in gobs and rivulets down the face and neck, the syrupy rivers merging and melding into one another over the trunk and down the legs. The sight was mesmerizing, horrifying, and Eric was unable to look away.

"What the hell is happening to that statue, man?" Doug shouted from the ledge, aghast at the spectacle before his eyes.

Eric was transfixed, simply watching as the statue was bathed in the grisly fluid. Eventually, it stopped, but the remnants of the flood coated the statue in a thick, slimy blanket that shone dull red in the reflected light. Shaking his head in wonder, he said, "I don't know—I think that this last stone was a trigger of some sort. I think that it started the statue doing…whatever it's doing."

He shone the lantern's light on the statue again, wondering at what the thick liquid could be. It almost looked like…_Nah_, he thought to himself. _It couldn't be what it looked like. Could it?_ For a second, the cautious, safety-minded part of his brain warred with the more curious, risk-taking portion. Finally, though, the wonderment was more than he could stand, and Eric reached out a hand to touch the mysterious fluid. He reached a hand out to the statue's arm, from which the liquid dripped in abundance, pausing just before he reached it. A few drops landed on his outstretched fingers. He looked at the drops under the flashlight beam, and sure enough, they looked just like what he suspected.

"So what is it?" Doug asked.

"Don't know for sure," Eric answered, distractedly. "But it looks like…blood."

"Blood? That's nuts!" Doug scoffed. Eric muttered under his breath, annoyed. Of course it was nuts, but there was the evidence, right in front of his eyes, dripping from his fingers. Still, he wondered, and gazed at the statue again. For another second, caution reared its head. It was no match for his eager curiosity, though, and with a muttered "Ah, hell, no guts, no glory," Eric swiped his fingers over the statue's arm. And felt the razor-sharp edges of hundreds of tiny chunks of stone as sharp as cut glass slice into them.

Jumping back with a curse, he howled, "Holy shit, this thing cut me!"

"What? You're hurt?" Doug started across the stones.

"No, no, stay there—I'm coming back." Eric yelled, as he began hopping from stone to stone, quickly making his way back to the ledge. He cradled his hurt hand in the crook of his other arm, the cut fingers beginning to tingle and throb after the first shock of injury had passed.

"You okay?" Doug asked when Eric finally leaped back onto the ledge. He was obviously worried, and Eric hastened to assure him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just a few little cuts, but they sting like hell." He waved off Doug's offer to look at the hand, saying instead, "Let's just get out of here, okay? We'll go back and tell Bernstein what we found and then go on out and back to the camp. He'll want to come down here and look around himself, I'm sure. Maybe he'll wait until after lunch, though," he added, a wistful tone in his voice. "I'd sure like to be here when he sees this, but I should probably wash my hand off and get it bandaged."

"You sure that it's not more than just a little cut or two?" Doug persisted.

"Come on, you wuss," Eric chided. "Haven't you ever cut yourself before? It's just a little scratch—nothing to it. It would take more than that to do me in, so stop your nagging."

Casting an annoyed frown at Doug, Eric entered the tunnel mouth and began picking his way back up the steep slope. Glancing back at the newly arisen visage of Anubis, and looking more than a little concerned, Doug hurried after his boss and friend. Their twin flashlight beams faded away as the two made their way up and out of the grotto, leaving the bleeding statue alone once more in the cold, damp blackness.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

I_ fulfill the law and the law demands your blood. I am the crocodile, the catastrophe, the devourer, the necessity. Impaled on my teeth, you shall be blessed for you will glimpse the truth. I am only the secrets of your own dark heart, you lust, your greed, your anger, your flesh. As long as you breathe, I shall exist to snatch you from yourself, to grind your bones and chew your flesh, to tear the darkness from your heart. I am the living power of water, the cry that catches in your throat, the sob that shatters stone._

_On my teeth you smell the stink of flesh. To you I seem a living horror. But I tell you in truth, I am your own soul and it is with great sorrow that I crush the life you have made._

_--Excerpt from "Becoming the Crocodile", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

Bernstein teetered on the uneven top of a small chunk of collapsed ceiling, hanging onto the tunnel doorway with one hand and brushing dirt and grime off the inscription above it with the other. As more and more of the caked-on grunge came off the time-smoothed hieroglyphics, Bernstein exchanged a worried look with Hamid.

"I don't like what I'm seeing, here," he told the Egyptian. He tossed the brush down to Hamid, then ran his finger over the carved figures, making sure once more that his initial translation had been correct. No matter how many times he went over the markings, though, he ended up with the same thing. And it wasn't good.

Eric and Doug had met up with him a little while ago, catching the archaeologist and his Egyptian colleague just before their lunch break. The two young men had filled them in on the discovery they'd just made, and then Eric had shown them his hand. Bernstein, of course, had been appalled—at the injury itself, of course, but also by the fact that Eric had blatantly disregarded his explicit instructions regarding safety. Eric, of course, had waved off the concern, assuring him that it was just a small cut, but Bernstein was still annoyed. Maybe Eric had been lucky this time, but worse accidents could easily happen, if people didn't take care. Sending the two off to the first aid cabinet in the mess tent, Bernstein scowled after them.

"Youth, my friend," Hamid chuckled, trying to mollify him. "Youth and curiosity, and that wonderful feeling of immortality that goes with them. You remember that, surely?"

Bernstein had scowled again, but then smiled at his friend, saying, "Youth is wasted on the young, and curiosity killed the cat. You've heard those, as well."

Hamid laughed, clapping his friend on the back and steering him back towards the pyramid entrance.

"Come along, John! Let's go and see what those two have discovered. It sounds intriguing!"

Bernstein and Hamid had traipsed back into the temple, down the passageway and on through the great hall, finally entering the temple cavern. They saw the tunnel entrance at once, for Eric and Doug had focused the work lights directly at the entrance, illuminating it clearly. The young men had described in great detail the door, the tunnel, and the grotto-like room beyond. They had faithfully described the stepping stones, the strange statue, and the reddish gunk that had poured from it when Eric had stepped on the keystone. But they had also remembered to mention the glyphs above the tunnel entrance, and that was what Bernstein wanted to examine first. He was well past the point in his life where he went rushing into situations without first knowing what he was doing. True, he was bull-headed and impatient, and undeniably a man of action, but he liked to get his homework done before he commenced that action. He wasn't about to go running down that tunnel and out to see the bleeding—or crying, or pissing, or whatever—statue, before he first knew what the pyramid builders had to say about it.

And so here they were, the two aging adventurers, standing on rocks from the temple's collapsed ceiling, and puzzling over five-thousand-year-old riddles. Because, unfortunately, that's all that Bernstein could make of the glyphs, no matter how many times he pondered them.

"So, John, what does it say?"

Bernstein scratched his head, tucking the fine-bristled brush back into his pants pocket and stepping down off the rock before answering Hamid.

"It doesn't make much sense, my friend. Talks about a promise from Anubis to his servant, who I assume is the Scorpion King, a curse that will bring a plague upon their enemies, and a vow made in blood. Kind of reminds me of the saying 'Despair, all ye who enter here,'" he added, looking back up at the word pictures.

"But the exact translation is…" Hamid prompted.

"Word for word, it says, _'Enter here the chamber of Anubis, the vault of the curse, and with your cup gather the floodtide of destruction. He who drinks from the cup, I curse, and mark him for death. With this last, worst plague I deliver over a bleeding Egypt to my servant.'_"

"Well, that doesn't sound too good, does it?" The Egyptian man sounded concerned, but his words were understated, as usual.

"No, not at all, and I don't like the fact that Eric got the damn stuff from the statue all over himself, either. Who knows what it was, or what it was for?"

"Are we going to go down and take a look?" Hamid asked, not looking too happy about the prospect, but willing to go along with whatever Bernstein decided.

"I suppose we ought to at least take a look," Bernstein finally replied, sounding grim. "But be careful, and don't touch anything, and for God's sake, let's remember what just happened to Eric. For now, we're just going to look at that statue from a distance until we can get a sample of the fluid and get it analyzed."

Nodding, Hamid stepped aside as Bernstein unhooked his flashlight from his belt loop and turned it on, leading the way into the tunnel. Cautiously, the Egyptian lit his own flashlight and moved to follow.

* * *

The youngish man lay supine on the bed, sheets twisted in disarray over his well-muscled legs, leaving his broad back and shoulders bare to the night air. His brownish-blonde hair was mussed by sleep, and his well-chiseled mouth was slightly open, a soft snore vibrating through his lips. His arms were stretched out over his head, hands clutching the soft goose down pillow in a death grip, as if he could simply squeeze a good night's rest out of the fluffy feathers. The apartment was dark, and a slight breeze from the overhead fan dispelled the musty smell of disuse that lingered in the air. He seldom used the place, although it was officially his permanent residence—usually only coming here to sleep a few nights in between his frequent trips abroad. That was what brought him here now. He had returned only yesterday from an assignment in Kazakhstan, and was looking forward to a week's rest before being sent off to Jordan.

The shrill ring of the phone pierced the stillness, and he jumped, jolted out of a sound sleep, hands slapping and searching on the night stand for the offending instrument. After several fumbling grabs, he finally managed to ungracefully remove the handset, and silence the strident noise. Trying in vain to line the phone up with his ear, he muttered a curse under his breath, but finally got the stupid, noisy thing aligned.

"Yeah?" The word was mumbled into the mouthpiece, muffled by the pillow that was still scrunched up under his head.

"Connelly? Are you awake?" The voice on the other end of the line was annoyingly energetic and cheerful.

"Oh, yeah—sure I'm awake. I'm always wide awake at three in the morning. Who the hell is this?" His voice still held a trace of sleepiness, but annoyance gave it a sharp edge.

"This is Anderson. I just called to tell you that your leave has been cancelled. You need to be at headquarters by seven this morning to get your new orders. You'll be going on a little trip for us."

"Shit. I just got back from a little trip, or had you forgotten?" Like it or not, and he was inclined to _not_, Connelly had a feeling that he'd slept his quota for the night. "What can't wait? Or be given to someone else?" There was no answer. Tiredly, he sat up and ran his hand through his hair, which promptly fell back into his face. Rubbing his eyes, he struggled to wake up completely. "Okay, okay, what's going on?"

"We've got a situation developing in Sudan," the disembodied voice of Anderson answered him. "One of our operatives in Libya has reported that there's been some contact with the terrorist cell he's watching there. Several phone calls have gone through to the head honcho of that particular cell, and there's some excitement over them."

"So what does a terrorist cell in Libya have to do with Sudan?" A second later, he added, "Except for the fact that they're all a bunch of crazy bastards?"

"From what our agent has learned, the calls originated from an archaeological site out in the Sudanese desert, near the Ethiopian border. Whatever they've got going out there is pretty interesting to the 'crazy bastards.'"

"Well, what the hell could they be doing way the hell out there? Training attack camels?" Connelly knew that there could be any number of things a group of radical, shit-for-brains terrorists could be doing out in the middle of nowhere, but at three in the morning, he didn't care to think about the possibilities. They could range from training recruits, to assembling a nuclear bomb, to planning the end of the world. Or they could be shoveling camel shit. But wait, something didn't quite fit…

"Hold on a second. This contact was from someone at an archaeological site? What would a bunch of archaeologists be doing that would interest a terrorist? Digging up the Ark of the Covenant? Didn't they see the movie about that one?"

"Very funny, Connelly," Anderson sounded annoyed. "It's an American team running the excavation out there. And an international team of scientists. Big news—possibly one of the biggest finds of the century. Fortune and glory, and all that. Don't you ever watch the news?"

"Not on the Discovery Channel," Connelly scowled. "So what am I supposed to do out there?"

"The CIA needs to have someone on site, just in case. To keep an eye on whatever's being dug up, and to keep an eye on anyone acting like they might be connected with our Libyan pals. Oh, and to maybe protect our fellow Americans." Anderson sighed. "Look, just come to headquarters at seven. We'll fill you in on everything." There was silence for a couple of seconds, then, "Oh, and Connelly—I'd be packed for some hot, dry conditions if I were you. Looks like you'll be getting a really good, up-close look at some nice old dead things, or whatever it is they're digging up out there."

"Great. Just what I wanted to do on my week off," Connelly said, his voice dripping sarcasm, but Anderson had already hung up, and his words simply bounced off the dial tone.

Matt Connelly tossed the phone back onto the nightstand with a muffled curse. Leaning back against the headboard, he steamed, now totally awake and without hope of getting back to sleep before morning. Cussing louder, he picked up his much-abused pillow, punched it once, and then hurled it against the opposite wall, knocking over a chair on the way. Great. He'd be visiting Sudan. Just what he wanted to do to relax from his little trip to the former Soviet Union. Nothing like sand and camel dung to make Russia look like a vacation paradise.

* * *

Heathrow was crowded at this time of day, and the press of bodies only added to Charles' nervousness. He clutched the large, square case to his chest, doing his best to protect it from any unnecessary jostling. Eyes darting back and forth, he worked his way to the security checkpoint that separated the gate areas from the main terminal. _Please, please let Robert be there,_ he prayed silently, a few beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He did not want to send this case through the scanners, or draw unnecessary attention to it at all. _Like you're doing right now by hanging onto it like it was solid gold?_ Consciously loosening his grip on the case, he tried valiantly to relax and assume a look of casual confidence. He failed miserably, only succeeding in looking like he needed to find the nearest restroom, and quickly, at that. Robert, his embassy contact, had assured him that he had connections at the airport that would allow them to pass through the checkpoint with little or no scrutiny, and Charles hoped that he was right.

Up ahead, the hallway narrowed and he could see the open frames of several metal detectors, along with the requisite security equipment. And, God bless him, there was Robert, motioning for Charles to come over to where he was standing, next to one of the security officers.

"You're late," Robert complained, checking his watch.

"Yes; well, I had some last minute problems with the museum board," Charles explained.

"Never mind," Robert cut him off with an impatient gesture. "This is Tom, head of security here, and he's going to escort us through the checkpoint."

Nodding at the short, balding officer, Charles stepped through the gate that Tom held open for him. Nervously, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his brow. Tom frowned.

"You all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'll be just wonderful as soon as we get on the plane."

"Maybe I'd better take a peek inside that case, just to make sure everything's okay," Tom was clearly having second thoughts about letting Charles through the checkpoint unmolested. He reached for the black case, and Charles quickly snatched it away, clutching it even more tightly than before.

"Tom, he's fine—I can vouch for him. Nothing in that case except some old museum artifact that he's grown a little too attached to," Robert calmed, placing a soothing hand on Tom's beefy shoulder. Still dubious, Tom nevertheless waved Charles past. As Robert went to follow, though, Tom held him back.

"You better keep an eye on him, friend. He looks like he's about to have an attack of some sort, and I want him out of this airport before that happens."

Robert smiled and nodded. He was certainly not going to let Charles out of his sight. Neither Charles, nor the case he was clutching. That was a sure thing.

"Not to worry, Tom," he assured his crony. "I'll be watching him very closely." Shaking the officer's hand, he strolled nonchalantly after Charles, who looked like he was racing for the gate.

"Charles." His voice was pitched low, but it carried, and the tone was a commanding one. "Slow down."

Up ahead, Charles slowed, and finally stopped, waiting for Robert to catch up. Nervously, he shifted from foot to foot, obviously anxious to be on his way again.

"You need to calm down, Charles," said Robert. "I've already told you that this would not be a problem. Airport security was child's work, and Customs in Cairo won't be much more difficult."

"Yes, well, all the same, I'll be much happier when we arrive at the hotel in Cairo this evening," Charles replied, a hint of a whine in his voice.

"You have made arrangements from Cairo to travel to Sudan and reach the site?" Robert asked.

"Yes, everything's been arranged," Charles assured. "We arrive in Cairo tonight, and then we'll be there for a few days before boarding the train for Sudan. I have some business to take care of at the Museum of Antiquities before we leave for the site. Bernstein will just have to wait a little bit for his delivery."

"And the trip from Cairo to the site? How long will that be?"

"Should take just a few days more. A day and a half on the train, a short layover in Khartoum, and then a quick helicopter ride to the site. Assuming, of course, that everything goes as planned."

"Things seldom go exactly as planned, my friend," Robert cautioned, with a slight smile. "But I'll do my best to make sure that if your plans go awry, it's not the fault of Customs."

"Thank you, Robert," Charles smiled wanly. "I owe you for this."

"Yes," Robert agreed. "You do."

* * *

Eliana sat on the sand, huddled in the blanket she'd brought with her, letting the desert wind play around her face and loosen tendrils of hair from the ponytail she'd dragged her hair into earlier that evening. She lifted her face to the breeze and closed her eyes, enjoying the coolness of the night. She sat there for a long time, simply enjoying the feel and smell of the desert, and listening to the sounds of life all around her. It soothed her to some degree, for she had been feeling irritable and restless all day, uncharacteristically snapping at the students and avoiding the others, where possible.

She would have liked to pretend that she didn't know why this mood had come over her and refused to leave, but she was all too aware of the reason why. For some nights, now, Eliana's sleep had been dream-free and undisturbed, and although this would seem to make for better rest and an improved mood, in fact exactly the opposite was true. Oddly, every night since she'd talked with Ardeth in her tent, Eliana had slept deeply, and dreamlessly. She'd not slept so soundly since arriving at the site. And each morning, she awoke feeling alone, and achingly lonely, and…bereft. Not since before she'd arrived on the desert had she spent the night alone in her mind, without the priest joining her in some way during the dark hours. Now, he seemed to have disappeared entirely from her subconscious, and Eliana mourned the loss, illogical though it was to feel so abandoned. It was almost as though a piece of her own soul had gone missing as well.

A gentle hand fell upon her shoulder, and she jumped, startled.

"Eliana? Are you all right?" Ardeth had approached silently, as usual, graceful as a desert cat, and although his sudden appearance startled her, she was no longer frightened of him. She smiled up at him, though her smile was a sad one.

"Just feeling a little blue," she told him, her voice low and quiet. "I thought that sitting out here might cheer me up a bit, but it's not really working."

"I have often found that being alone in the desert at night can have just the opposite effect," Ardeth quietly agreed, folding his hands behind his back and looking up at the canopy of stars overhead. His black robe billowed gently in the soft breeze. "Instead of giving comfort, its vastness simply exaggerates one's feeling of isolation and insignificance."

She stared at him, amazed to find that he had almost read her mind. In the space of mere minutes, he had read her mood with uncanny accuracy, and in itself, that connection with another human being brought its own comfort. Gesturing for him to sit down next to her, Eliana smiled again, although this time it was a bit broader.

"Sit down, Ardeth. Keep me company for a while. Maybe if we're both out here, the desert won't seem so big, or so empty.

He hesitated for a moment; then quietly sat down by her side, leaning forward and wrapping his black-robed arms around his bent knees. Neither spoke, but neither felt the need to speak. The cold, white light of the stars still shone high above them, riding the curve of the night sky, but somehow the feeling was less remote and diminishing than before. Reaching over, Eliana took Ardeth's hand and squeezed it, a simple, uncomplicated gesture of the tentative friendship they had begun.

"Thanks," she said, and turned her face back up to the night sky, closing her eyes once more. Ardeth said nothing in return, but sat looking at her face in profile, feeling another little chunk of his heart fall away.

* * *

In the Med Jai camp to the north, the horses were being led in for the evening. It had been a long day, and the horses were tired and more skittish than usual. The Med Jai tending them this evening was tired, too, and jumped a bit when a scorpion skittered up to his foot. Cursing loudly in Arabic, he kicked the offensive insect away with his leather toe of his boot. The horse he was leading, a spirited stallion, reared at the sudden movement and noise, whinnying loudly, hooves pawing the air. Turning to the horse, the Med Jai ran a soothing hand over its velvet nose and whispered a soft, calming word. Still agitated, the horse stamped once with its powerful hoof, and just missed crushing a dung beetle that raced along on the ground. The scarab, resilient creature that it was, paused long enough to make sure that the danger was past, and then went on its way. 


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

_Through the deceit of death I grow wise in the illusions of time. I change, I grow beyond myself, leaving the papery sheath that once was what I was. I live alone and make my changes in secret. I know the smell of fear, of death, of innocence. I rest in shadows. I lick the wisdom of air and dust. I wrap myself around the legs of life. I lie down in darkness and learn the art of subtlety. I rear and strike in surprise. I leave but a meandering trail in the dust. I demand neither fear nor pity. I know what you can not see. It is not pride that keeps me solitary. In your hands the honey of my mouth turns to poison. It is mere survival—yours and mine._

_--Excerpt from "Becoming the Snake", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

Eric coughed--a dry, wheezing hack that burned his lungs and made his ribs ache. He felt terrible, like he could happily sleep for a week, but he was determined to finish sketching and photographing the gorgeous murals that decorated the walls of the temple area in the pyramid. He'd been working on that task now for the past several days, since his hand was still sore from the cuts he'd received from the statue, and Bernstein wasn't permitting him to do any heavier work. He'd been injured just over a week ago, his hand was still very sore, and it didn't appear to be getting any better. It was actually starting to worry him some. He didn't think it was infected, but it burned and throbbed like crazy. Just his luck if he'd gotten it infected with some of the ever-present grunge he lived with out here. He rubbed his palm against the almost-clean leg of his jeans, trusting that the bandage would keep the dirt and germs out, and wanting the pressure on his hand to alleviate the throbbing.

But the hand wasn't what bothered him the most. Three days ago, he'd come down with a miserable cold—chills, fever, muscle aches, sore throat and a slight cough. Getting up that morning, he'd cursed his bad luck. Apparently, the injury to his hand wasn't enough—now, he'd have to suffer through a cold out here in the miserable heat as well. He'd always been a healthy person, and he expected the virus to soon pass. It lingered, though, making his days wretched and his nights hell.

Last night had been the worst. He'd been wracked by fits of coughing so loud that Doug had come over in the middle of the night to see if he was all right. Eric had asked him for some water, and Doug had gotten some, then sat up with him a bit to make sure he didn't need anything else. But all Eric wanted was sleep, and that was the one thing the constant coughing was depriving him of. Doug had been a good sport, sitting in the tent for quite a while, patting Eric on the back during the coughing fits, and in general being a concerned friend, but there was little he could do, and eventually he went back to try to get some sleep himself. Eric hoped that he hadn't coughed so much that he'd give Doug the cold, too, because it was a nasty one.

Even now, his head was aching, and his eyes felt gritty and tired. He stopped for a moment to feel the swollen lymph nodes on the sides of his neck, and grimaced. God, this was a nasty bug, and it just wasn't letting go. Feeling another coughing fit coming on, he set down the sketchbook and pencil, and took his handkerchief from his back pocket. After the spasm passed, he went to fold the handkerchief, but stopped, looking at the spots of red that stained the white linen. Giving the cloth a worried frown, he crumbled it into a ball and stuffed it into his back pocket. Now, he thought, I'm getting worried.

"Eric, are you all right?" Bernstein's voice came from just behind him, and Eric jumped up, startled. He must have walked up behind him while Eric was having the coughing fit.

"Yeah, John, I'm okay—just this cold. Why?" Eric tried to project a tone of casual nonchalance, but it sounded hollow, even to him.

"You just coughed up blood, if I'm not mistaken," Bernstein explained, pointing to Eric's back pocket, where the offending cloth protruded. "I think you should take a rest for the afternoon. Lie down for a while, and see if you can get some sleep. If you're not better by tomorrow, we're going to bring a doctor back from the city when Akil goes in for supplies."

"John, don't make a big fuss about this. I'm fine. Really," Eric protested. "I'm just gonna take it easy this afternoon, and finish these sketches, and then turn in early…"

"No, Eric, I'm afraid you're not." Bernstein corrected him. "You are going to stop now, and get some rest. That is an order. I can't afford to have you get so sick that you can't complete the dig. Better to take a little time now than to lose a lot later."

"John…"

"No arguing, Eric. I mean it. In fact, I'm going to walk back to the camp with you, just to make sure you really go. It's almost time for lunch, anyway."

Bernstein waited while Eric packed up his equipment. The young man's anger was obvious in the tight, quick movements he made, and the stubborn, resentful pout on his lips. But Eric had worked with Bernstein for many years, and he knew that there was no arguing with him. Not looking at his mentor, Eric walked past him and into the tunnel leading to the great hall. Bernstein followed, shaking his head in grim amusement at the sheer mulishness of his favorite protégé. He cared for Eric a great deal, almost like a son, and he'd be damned if he let the boy work himself into the ground.

They walked back to the camp together in silence, though not a particularly companionable one. Once they arrived, Eric turned to Bernstein, his frustration showing in his eyes.

"Look, I'll take a break, okay, but I want to go back later this afternoon, all right?"

"We'll see how you're feeling, Eric…" Bernstein started, but was interrupted by the violent fit of coughing that shook Eric. It lasted several minutes, and when Eric finally looked up, exhausted, tears streaming from his eyes, Bernstein stared at him in shock. The tears running freely down Eric's cheeks were not clear—they were pink-tinged, and a thin trickle of blood ran down from one nostril, as well. Confused at the expression he saw on Bernstein's face, Eric swiped at his face, and when he saw that his fingers had come away red, his own expression began to mirror that of the older man's.

"What the…" he began, but Bernstein abrubtly cut him off.

"Go to your tent now, Eric. I'll have Sabir bring you some broth and some water, and you get some rest."

"But…" Eric protested, now looking clearly frightened.

"I'm going to get on the radio and have the helicopter pilot come in now, and take Akil back with him tonight. They'll get the supplies, and a doctor, and be back by tomorrow morning. You are to stay in that tent and not get out until the doctor arrives. Do you understand?" Bernstein was frightened himself, and his tone was harsher than he would have liked. But it did the job, as Eric meekly nodded and left, heading for his tent. His footsteps were slow and shuffling, and he walked with the gait of an old man. Bernstein watched him go, until he was sure that Eric had made it safely inside.

"My god, what in the hell could be wrong with him?"

Shaking his head, he went to find Sabir and Akil, and let them know what was happening.

* * *

True to his word, Bernstein made the necessary arrangements, and by mid-morning the next day, the helicopter was landing back at the camp. The first one on the ground, as usual, was the pilot, who stepped down from his seat and began unloading the boxes and crates of supplies. Akil Hamid was next, hopping down from the passenger section, and then turning to offer a hand to the third person in the chopper.

Bernstein hoped that Hamid had managed to find a competent physician somewhere in Khartoum, because Eric had gotten worse and worse during the night. The coughing had kept up, the volume of blood in the spittle steadily increasing, and the nosebleed hadn't abated, either. And to cap it all off, Eric had begun vomiting, unable to hold down even the most bland of foods. The archaeologist was beginning to get genuinely worried about whatever virus Eric had picked up, and he couldn't stop wondering if, somehow, it had all begun with the discovery they'd made last week…_No, that's ridiculous_, he scoffed_. Been up too late worrying. Can't go around reading so much into old legends and curses. Damn leaky statues or no. The doctor will be good, and he'll fix Eric right up, good as new._

"He" finally clambered down from the chopper, landing lightly on two boot-clad feet, and Bernstein was chagrined to discover that the doctor was actually a "she," and didn't look much older than Eliana. A bit younger, in fact, if the truth were known. Smiling politely at Hamid, the young woman looked toward the camp, straightened her shoulders, and began to walk towards Bernstein. She was a pretty little thing, he thought, with long, wavy black hair, big brown almond-shaped eyes, and a delicate, heart-shaped face. She walked gracefully and quickly, her steps light and sure as she covered the distance from the chopper to the camp. In her left hand, she carried a black duffel bag, presumably filled with the tools of her trade.

Reaching him, she extended a hand and offered him a polite, but serious, smile.

"I take it you are Professor Bernstein?"

Bernstein took the hand she offered, and was pleased to note that although small and feminine, her hand was strong and her handshake firm. He also noticed that although she looked Arabic, she spoke English with a decidedly British accent, which meant, hopefully, that she'd studied medicine abroad. Well, not that they could do much about that now, anyway. If Akil had brought her back with him, that meant she was a doctor, and right now, they couldn't be choosy. Eric needed medical attention, and he needed it now. He nodded, and introduced himself.

"Yes, I'm John Bernstein. Nice to meet you. And you are…?"

"My name is Khalidah al Faran, but everyone calls me Callie." Seeing his questioning look, she smiled and explained, "I picked up the nickname at university in Great Britain, and it stuck with me."

Smiling back at her, Bernstein put his hand on her back and led her through the common area of the camp towards Eric's tent. He hated to rush her, after the fairly long chopper ride, but his concern for Eric overrode his attention to politeness. Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice, or mind, his abruptness.

"I understand one of your team has taken ill," she said, looking towards him as they walked, and obviously hoping he would provide some additional details. "How long has he been sick?"

"He started feeling sick just a few days ago—fever, chills, a little cough—just the normal, run-of-the-mill cold symptoms. No one thought anything of it, except that it was miserable to have a cold out here. He kept working the whole time, and didn't seem to be bothered too much—just an inconvenience, you know. The coughing got worse, but that happens a lot with a cold, so…" he trailed off, feeling guilty for not getting Eric some medical attention before this. But who could have known? Taking a breath, he went on.

"Then, yesterday, he started coughing up blood, and—I know this sounds exceptionally strange, but it's the god's own truth, I swear—well, his _tears_ started looking bloody. And he developed a bloody nose, and it hasn't stopped bleeding since. And last night he started vomiting. This is not like any cold I've ever seen, Doctor." They had reached the closed flap to Eric's tent, and he turned to face the doctor, all the concern he felt for the young man showing plainly in his face.

"Call me Callie, Professor Bernstein. The clinic I work for is small, and we're a pretty informal bunch. And thank you for filling me in on the patient's history. He is in here, then?" She pointed to the tent, and Bernstein nodded. "Why don't you wait out here until I go in and examine him. If he's got something contagious, the fewer people we expose, the better." As she spoke, she dug through the bag she carried, and pulled out a white face mask, which she quickly donned. She reached for the flap.

"I'll be just a few minutes, okay?"

* * *

Callie walked into the dim interior of the tent, and waited for a second or two until her eyes adjusted. It smelled in here, she thought, a cloying odor of illness and sweat. Nothing she hadn't smelled many times before, working with the poorest of the poor families in Khartoum, and before that, with more poor people in whatever country the Peace Corps happened to assign her to. Sickness, sweat, unwashed bodies, the putrid smell of gangrene, and of course, the most terrible smell of all—death—were old friends of hers. Young though she was, Callie had seen more than most people ever do. And she wouldn't have it any other way. She loved what she did, and she was good at it, and she felt truly blessed to be able to serve so many who would otherwise go without.

Eyes adjusted to the dimness now, she peered around and noticed the young man lying on several layers of sleeping bags towards the center of the tent. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly, as though with great effort. Moving closer, she got a better glimpse of his face, and winced. His face looked like an old man's, with dark circles under his eyes, and an ashen gray tint to the tightly-pulled skin of his cheeks. His lips were pale and bloodless looking, and if not for the slow but steady breathing, she might have feared that he had already died. Indeed, the only color to him at all was from the steady trickle of blood that snaked down from one nostril, and the pinkish streaks that were traced down his temples from the corner of each eye. Her eyes swept over him, and she noticed the bandaged hand. _Poor man_, she thought. _Not just sick, but injured, too_.

Putting down her bag, she knelt beside him, and at the movement, his eyes cracked open a tiny bit. He tried to smile, but the movement seemed to hurt, and he settled for a small twitch of his dry, cracked lips.

"Hello, Eric," she greeted him, and her husky voice was low-pitched and soothing. "I'm a doctor, and I'm going examine you, okay?"

He nodded, and closed his eyes. Reaching into her bag, she withdrew a pair of latex exam gloves and several instruments, and quickly ran a check of his vitals—temperature, blood pressure, pulse—and with a small penlight flashlight, looked into his eyes. Temperature was elevated, blood pressure was down a bit, and the heart rate was up. Nothing too unusual for some type of infection, but it seemed to Callie that something more was going on here. This was obviously more than just a cold or the flu. Mentally, she ran through the possibilities, but the symptoms were too general. It could be any number of things, from the mundane to the bizarre. The cold symptoms didn't bother her overly much, but the blood in the tears and phlegm were disturbing, and she was beginning to get a funny feeling, a vague uneasiness that niggled in her brain…something that it _could_ be jumped out from the memories of years in medical school, but she pushed it aside. _No, that is just too strange, _she thought to herself_. How could he have gotten something like that?_

Deciding to check on the hand, now, too, she carefully unwrapped the bandage, exposing the nasty series of gashes. They still oozed blood, and their edges were raw and red. This definitely looked like an infection. _Well_, she thought, _at least a shot of penicillin ought to take care of that._ He'd have had to be up-to-date with his shots, tetanus included, to be traveling abroad, so that shouldn't be an issue. Removing some fresh bandages from her bag, she gently applied an antiseptic cream to the wound and re-bandaged it.

As she finished, he tiredly opened his eyes again. He tried opening his mouth to speak, but his lips were so dry that they stuck together, and he was so weak that it took several times before he could force them apart. When he spoke, the words were a hoarse whisper.

"So, doc, what's wrong with me?"

"I'm not sure, Eric, but I mean to find out, and get you fixed up, okay?" The confidence she tried to project in her voice was totally fabricated, but he didn't need to know that, at this point.

"Sounds good to me," he agreed, again trying to smile. He succeeded this time, and Callie thought to herself that he must have been quite a good-looking man, before getting so ill.

"Do you feel up to answering a few questions for me, Eric?" Brushing the sweat-dampened hair from his brow, she waited for his nod of assent. "Okay, then—Professor Bernstein has filled me in on some of the details, but I'd just like to summarize them a bit, okay? Don't talk if you don't want to—just nodding is fine."

He nodded, and she smiled at him and went on.

"Okay—so you started feeling sick a few days ago, and at first you thought it was a cold, right? Cough, fever, chills, sore throat, the usual stuff, right?" He nodded. "Then you coughed up some blood, and blood started showing up in your tears, and you got the bloody nose, is that correct?" He nodded again. "And last night you were sick to your stomach. Anything else?"

"Yesterday morning, I noticed…" A cough shook him, and she put a comforting hand on his arm, waiting until he could talk again. "…I noticed that I had this strange rash on my chest and stomach. But a rash isn't that bad, is it?" His eyes begged her to tell him that it wasn't.

"Not necessarily, Eric. Any more?"

"Well, the stomach cramps and vomiting got worse all through the night, and then I started having, well, to use the bathroom a lot." Obviously embarrassed to tell a young, beautiful doctor about the inner workings of his body, Eric mumbled the last words.

"Diarrhea" she prodded, gentle but needing to get to the bottom of the symptoms. "I don't mean to embarrass you, Eric, but was there any blood in the vomit or stool?" He looked away. "I really need to know, Eric…"

"Well, yeah, a little," he answered, mumbling even more softly than before.

As he talked, the mental list she had made of the possibilities kept on shrinking, and now the tickle in her head was taking on the proportions of a throbbing headache. The mundane was looking less and less likely, and the bizarre more and more possible.

"One more question, Eric, and then I'm going to let you get some sleep, okay?" At his nod, she continued. "This is really important, so make sure you think about it before answering, all right?"

"Sure, doc, whatever you say."

"In the last week or so, have you been bitten by any animals, or been exposed to anyone else who's been sick, or come into contact with anyone else's blood in any way?"

At that, Doug opened his eyes a bit more, and the fear in them grew markedly.

"Those questions don't sound too good, doc," he murmured, eyes searching her face.

"Pretty standard questions, Eric, really," she tried to reassure him. "So, how about an answer?"

"Well, no one else out here has been sick, and none of the animals have bit me, so I guess I haven't been bitten at all, unless you count the statue…" He laughed weakly, trying to make it sound like a joke, but she wasn't laughing, and her eyes reflected her confusion.

"The statue…?"

He explained, filling her in briefly on what had happened when he and Doug had found the grotto in the pyramid. As he spoke, the dread in her mind grew and grew, and finally when he finished, she was truly frightened of what seemed to be staring her in the face.

"Eric? If you don't mind, I'd like to get a small blood sample from you. I'll have it flown back to Khartoum, and the lab at my clinic will analyze it. We should know in a day if there's anything to worry about it, and then we can start fixing you up, all right?" Her smile felt pasted on, at least to her, but Eric couldn't see it anyway, through the mask she wore. Instead, he seemed to grab onto the last part of her sentence and find some hope there.

"Sure thing, doc, but be gentle with me, okay?" He smiled again, and tried to wink, and her heart went out to him. Again she was reminded of what a handsome man he must have been before getting sick, and a charming one, too. Even sick, he was blessed with a gentle good humor and a sweet way about him. She once again reached into her bag, this time drawing out a rubber tourniquet, a plastic syringe, and a small vial.

"I am always gentle, young man," she teased, and wrapped the tourniquet around his forearm.

Silent after that, she obtained the sample, carefully disposed of the syringe and trash in a small, portable hazardous waste container that she also carried with her, and put a small adhesive bandage on his arm. Patting his hand, she stood to leave.

"You get some rest now, okay? I'll be back to check on you later."

He tiredly agreed, and she packed up her things and left the tent. Outside, she peeled off the gauze mask and took a deep breath of the desert air. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and rolled it on her neck, trying to dispel the tension she felt there. _God, how could something like this have happened?_ She stood there for several minutes, then squared her shoulders and marched off to find Bernstein, and do what had to be done.

* * *

"Quarantine? You're not serious!" he shouted, jumping up from the table he had been sitting at. "It's just a cold, right, or the flu? Why on earth do we need to quarantine the whole camp?"

"You need to quarantine the camp because Eric is a very sick man, and there's a good possibility that he's got a highly virulent disease. I need to have this blood sample flown back to Khartoum now, and have the lab rush the results back right away. And I need to use your radio, too, to get in touch with my clinic."

"Why do you need to contact them?" Bernstein asked. "To let them know the blood is coming in for tests? What kind of disease do you think he has, anyway? How the hell could he have gotten something like a 'highly virulent disease' out here in the desert, anyway? Do you really know what you're doing, or do we need to get someone else out here to look at him?" The questions flew at Callie, and by the time he got to the last, pointed attack, her eyes were blazing. Her voice, however, was calm as ever.

"Let's take it one by one, then," she replied softly, and the deadly calm in her voice served to silence Bernstein much better than any shouted reply would have. "I need to contact them, because they have to contact someone else for me. That 'someone else' is the World Health Organization, because if Eric has what I think he has, they're going to want to get out here as fast as they can. And if you think that I'm being unreasonable about quarantining Eric and the camp, just wait until you have to deal with them. They'll shut you down and lock things up here faster than you can blink. And as to what I think he has, I'd rather not say, at least not until we get the lab report back. I don't want to cause a panic. Not now, anyway," she added. "And yes, I do know what I'm doing. I know exactly what I'm doing, and you should be thankful you got a doctor out here as quickly as you did."

Bernstein was silent, as her volley of words hit him with military precision. For once, he was speechless, but she wasn't yet done.

"And as to how he got whatever it is he has, I need to ask you a couple of questions about a statue…"

Bernstein groaned, and the fight went out of him. He visibly slumped, running his hands through his hair and closing his eyes. He sagged into the chair.

"Have a seat, Doctor, and tell me what you need to know."

* * *

A half hour later, the pilot was on his way back to Khartoum with a foam container holding the vial of Eric's blood, and a sample of the fluid from the statue that Bernstein and Hamid had procured days before, and put aside for later analysis. The pilot was under strict instructions to take the samples directly to Callie's clinic and wait there until the doctors gave him further instructions. Grumbling about the 'damn bossy woman doctor,' but happy to get the generous tip from Bernstein, he climbed aboard the chopper and was soon on his way.

Bernstein, Hamid and Callie watched in silence as the helicopter flew away to the northeast, its loud rotors fading off into silence as it became no more than a black speck on the horizon. Callie sighed, and turned to the two older men.

"Care to show me where that radio is?"

* * *

Anderson was sitting at the desk in his sparsely furnished office in a nondescript Washington, DC, building when the phone call came in from the World Health Organization. Answering the phone, he listened as the caller spoke, his face growing paler and paler by the minute. Finally, when the caller had finished, he shook his head, uncertain if he should believe what he had just been told.

"You are sure about this? Really sure?" he knew what the answer would be, but he had to ask. They had just sent one of their best agents to the damn dig, and now this…

The answer from the other end was affirmative, and he rested his forehead against his hand, propping it up with an elbow on the desk. _What next?_

"But there hasn't been an outbreak in what—six years? How did this happen, anyway?" _Like they'd know, _he thought, and apparently the voice agreed. "Well, never mind. I have to contact our agent in the field there. Thank you for letting us know. I know that the Americans at the site will be happy that you've alerted their government, so we can protect their interests as best we can…

"No, no, of course we won't be sending anyone else in. I'm just going to let our field agent know what he's walked into. He will be under strict orders not to share this information with anyone else, so don't worry."

Hanging up the phone, Anderson let out an audible groan. God, Connelly had just called hours before, to check in with Anderson and let him know that he'd be out of touch for the next twenty-four hours, after which he'd be at the dig. There was no way to contact him now except through the messaging system, and that could take hours. Connelly might arrive at the site by then, and if he was there, he was stuck. _Well_, thought Anderson, _with this new little development, he'd have had to go in, anyway, so maybe it's just as well._ But still, he needed to know what he was walking into.

Sighing, he picked up the phone and began to dial Connelly's messaging number.

* * *

It was full night, and the camp was asleep, when the shadowy figure crept silently from the ring of tents and made for the open desert. Used to the ritual by now, he moved swiftly and efficiently to distance himself enough to not be heard. Unpacking the satellite phone, his nimble fingers made quick work of the set up, and soon he was connected to his contact in Tripoli.

"I have news," he said, the Arabic flowing smoothly from his tongue. "A new development, and a potentially valuable one."

"Speak of it to me," his contact ordered, and the man continued, pleased at the note of anticipation he heard in his superior's voice. If this was indeed as important as he thought, not only would he achieve the respect of his comrades, but possibly an increase in status among them, as well.

"There has been an outbreak of illness in the camp," he began, quickly adding, "it is isolated, and efforts are proceeding to keep it so. But I overheard the doctor talking to Bernstein today about contacting the World Health Organization, so naturally I made arrangements to listen to her when she did so. The conversation was quite interesting," he finished, waiting for a few moments, to make his words more dramatic.

"They sent two vials of fluid to be tested for a specific disease," he went on, giving each word an almost theatrical emphasis. "One was the blood of the stricken man, and the other…the other was a sample of the fluid they suspect may have caused the infection. This fluid was found pouring from a statue located in a subterranean grotto in the Pyramid of Ahm Shere." He nodded to himself as his superior interrupted, barking out a question.

"Yes, I did indeed say 'pouring from a statue,' and no, I do not have any idea what the fluid is," he answered slowly, trying to keep a tone of respectful deference in his voice. If he knew what it was, didn't his superior know by now that he would share that information? "The camp is now under strict quarantine. No one is to leave until the lab results are returned. But think, if this disease is what they suspect, and the source is fluid leaking from the statue, we could obtain it ourselves and use it against the infidels in our Holy War…"

The voice barked out another question, even more impatiently this time, and the man had the answer ready. Indeed, this was the question he'd been waiting for, and he answered with almost evil glee.

"The disease? Yes, the doctor mentioned the name of the disease to the World Health Organization, although she would not tell the archaeologists. She said she didn't want to cause a premature panic." He waited again, to obtain the maximum shock value. "The disease she is worried about is dire indeed; even if it is not that specific disease, it is at least a close enough cousin to the suspect virus to cause great concern.

"It is Ebola."


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

_Oh, desert wind and swirling sand, mirage of trees in summer! Let me know what is real and not real. Let me see what it is that I have made._

_I come to this tomb to shed an old skin, to come anew, to rise up like rising water. Do not shut me out from life. Do not let me forget. Do not leave me to stand idle and alone in this hall, surrounded by dreams, for dreams—however beautiful—are vapors and desire, all insubstantial. Give me hands and mind and soul and heart. Give me music, a bright star and some reason to rise and walk. Flood me with purpose and memory._

_--Excerpt from "Not Losing His Mind", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

Eric's illness and the subsequent camp quarantine sucked the spirit and heart out of the expedition as surely as the desert sun sucked moisture from the earth and air. The laborers slunk about like whipped dogs, casting furtive glances at the archaeologists, and whispering among themselves in their babble of languages. They knew that Eric was quite ill, and that no one was to leave the camp, and that the only person allowed into his tent to care for him was the young female doctor. They also knew that the helicopter had left in a rush yesterday, bearing blood samples bound for the clinic in Khartoum. Beyond that, all they could do was guess. But with their rich mish-mash of cultures and superstitions, guessing and gossiping took on the gilded luster of an art form. The stories circulating through the camp were colorful and creative, and as varied as there were people to spread them, and many of the tales even approached the actual truth.

The students, too, particularly the ones that had worked most closely with Eric, were a sad- and sorry-looking bunch. They half-heartedly went through the motions of excavating the pyramid, but not much work was getting done, and no one, not even Bernstein, had the heart to reprimand them for not working faster or with more enthusiasm. No work was being done on the inside at all, because that was where Eric and Doug, and the two archaeologists, had focused their attention, and it simply depressed everyone too much to be in there right now. Maybe in a few days. When Eric was better. Maybe then they'd start digging around inside again. For now, they simply concentrated on unearthing more of the massive structure. Slowly. Without enthusiasm.

Basically, things had pretty much ground to a halt at the dig, and as Eliana sat morosely sipping a cup of lukewarm tea, trying not to think about how sick Eric was, she had to admit she felt the same as everyone else did. Rotten. Cupping her hands around the ceramic mug, she gloomily peered into the murky brown liquid, and muttered under her breath when she saw a bug floating on it. Standing, she walked to the edge of the tent and flung the liquid into the dirt, watching as the thirsty sand greedily slurped it up, leaving the fly to gather itself up, dust off its wings and fly away, or stay and be roasted by the sun. She stood there for several minutes, cup hanging from one hand, arms hanging limply at her sides, staring at the rapidly drying patch of sand, until finally, she could stand it no longer.

"I'll go crazy if I don't do something," she said aloud to herself, and she knew that the words were true. If she didn't get her mind off Eric and the camp's predicament in some way, she'd go mad.

She had finished with the skeleton of the Pygmy a day or so ago, storing it safely away inside a wooden crate, and she hadn't really had much to do since then. Her father had suggested that she go take a look inside the pyramid, but she had declined, strangely hesitant to enter the structure. Shrugging, he had told her to make herself useful in some other way, then, such as inventorying the supplies and making up a list of what they would need to acquire to restock their provisions. That is, if they could convince their pilot to keep coming out here to deliver them. No one was exactly sure if he'd be willing to—or able to, for that matter—if the quarantine was extended or tightened.

So, Eliana had dutifully picked through and sorted their supplies, and made up a list for Akil Hamid, who was the designated shopper for the expedition. That had taken all of two hours, and then she had gone to Sabir, the cook, to see if she could help him out in some way. He had gratefully accepted her offer of help, at least until he found out how useless and accident-prone she was in the kitchen, and had shooed her off, jabbering in Arabic about how she was just making more work for him. Disgusted with herself, and everyone and everything else, she had finally gone to her tent to read, but nothing she picked up caught her interest. Now, here she was again, looking for something to do.

A thought flickered through her mind that maybe she should just go and look quickly through the open areas of the pyramid, but she was still reluctant to do so. She had no idea why, since everyone else had been in there many times, and raved about what an astounding find it was. But to Eliana, the thought of entering the pyramid almost brought on a panic attack, as though something terrible was waiting for her there in the darkness. The thought of going in there literally made her skin crawl, and so she had listened to the others talk about what they had seen inside, and what was surely still in there to be found, and she herself had stayed away.

But maybe it was time. Maybe it was past time. Maybe it was just the thing she needed to shake off this dragging depression. Maybe if she faced whatever irrational fear she harbored about the pyramid, she'd feel better about everything. There was no sound reason for her not to go in and take a quick look around, after all. To be sure, she would avoid the grotto and the statue, but from what everyone else said, there was plenty more to look at inside.

She decided. This afternoon, she was going to set aside her foolish, groundless trepidation and see what was in the pyramid. It was silly not to—after all, how many times was she going to get a chance to see first hand something of this magnitude? Squaring her shoulders, feeling better already, she started off across the desert, heading for the pyramid. Normally, she would have told her father before going there, but she could see that he was engaged in deep conversation with Hamid, and they were pawing through a stack of maps and other documents and she didn't really want to interrupt. Besides, she'd only be gone for an hour or so, and they wouldn't miss her. She'd be back before anyone even noticed she was gone.

* * *

Charles wiped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief, formerly pristinely white and carefully folded, now rolled into a grimy ball of sweat and dirt. Peering out the dirt-streaked window of the chopper, he saw that they were closing in on a rag-tag assortment of tents, which he assumed was the site of the Ahm Shere dig. The helicopter ride out to the site from Khartoum had been relatively short, and for that he was thankful. He was looking forward to delivering this damn diamond to John and then sitting down for a while. He had been on enough digs himself to know that he would have no respite from the heat, not even in the form of a cool drink, but at least he'd be able to sit and rest a bit. Like John, he was getting older, and his body wasn't physically able to keep up with the rigorous demands of trekking across the desert and digging around in the dirt with as much gusto as it had twenty years ago. Unlike John, who kept himself in decent shape with a tough mental and physical discipline, Charles had surrendered himself years ago to the comforts of a desk job and an air-conditioned office. He felt miserable.

The chopper slowed, and then began its controlled drop to the sand. Still staring out the window, Charles noticed that people were beginning to congregate near the landing area, milling around as though waiting for something or someone terribly important. Not just the two archaeologists that he was expecting, but a group of students, and some of the native people, who he assumed had been hired as extra workers. A trifle pleased at all the attention he was receiving, Charles straightened his beige suit and tie, and did his best to make himself look the part of the dignified museum curator, who just happened to be dropping by to present a fifty kilogram diamond that supposedly would trigger a magic spell. _Ah, well,_ he thought, _can't always write the script the way you want it…

* * *

_

Bernstein watched the chopper land, an odd mixture of relief and anxiety churning in his gut. He was a bit surprised that the results of the blood tests were coming back so soon, but then again, the doctor had been very clear in demanding that the clinic give them top priority. _Maybe now we can get Eric fixed up,_ he thought, _and get everything else back to normal around here_. The possibility that Eric was perhaps beyond fixing up and that the dig would never be anything approaching normal again didn't even occur to him, and if it had, he would surely have dismissed it as being overly negative and pessimistic.

The chopper settled on the ground, and the pilot stepped out, and for a moment, a confused murmur swept through the assembled crowd. Bernstein held his hand up to shade his eyes, and squinted at the short man who was coming around to open the passenger door. This wasn't their pilot—their man was tall, and lanky; this one was short and stout. What was going on here? Callie al Faran had been quite specific when she ordered the pilot to wait for the test results and then come back here himself. Under no circumstances was he to let anyone else come to the camp. So who was this man?

Just then, the first of the passengers disembarked, and Bernstein recognized him instantly. Groaning, he laid a hand on Akil Hamid's arm, and shook his head. How did Charles manage to time his arrival so inopportunely? Why couldn't he have gotten here a few days, or a week, earlier? Still, he was here, and Bernstein was relieved. At least one thing could go forward, as planned. Chuckling grimly, he wondered how happy Charles would be to know that he had just walked into a little extended vacation out here. Callie wouldn't let him leave, and Bernstein wouldn't let him sit around like some deposed emperor, so maybe, just maybe, Charles might be looking at a reintroduction to the finer points of field archaeology. Bernstein's grin widened, and he explained his sudden good humor to his friend.

"It's not the test results, Akil. It's our diamond."

Together, they waited while Charles made his way over to them, a persnickety, pinched look on his too-thin face. The pilot hung back, checking out the chopper, getting ready to shut it down for a while. Following Charles was another man, whom Bernstein didn't recognize, but assumed to be an assistant of some sort to the museum curator. As the two men approached Bernstein and Hamid, the crowd began to scatter, for the workers and students knew their pilot and realized at once that this wasn't him or anyone from the clinic.

"Hello, Charles," Bernstein greeted, as the travel-rumpled older man approached. He held out his hand in greeting, and then couldn't help but add, "That my diamond you've got there?"

Charles' face darkened in temper, and he began to sputter. "This is _not_ your diamond, Bernstein, do you understand that? This belongs to the British Museum, and it is here with _me_, under _my_ protection, and it will stay for only as long as _I_ wish it to. Are we clear?"

"Calm down, Charles, calm down—I was just joking, you know," Bernstein soothed the flustered man. "Thank you very much for bringing it all the way out here—you can't know how important it is to this dig. Please—accept our hospitality and come sit down with us for a few moments, you and your friend, both. I'm sure you know we can't offer you anything cold to drink, but…"

Charles waved off the welcome. "Yes, yes, I know all about the abominable accommodations out on a dig. One of the reasons I hate the things. But we'd be happy to sit down, I'm sure." Noticing that Akil Hamid was staring quizzically at his companion, he finally thought to make an introduction.

"John, this is Robert Price, a friend of mine from the Embassy in London. He was invaluable in helping me get this little package through customs in Sudan with relative ease." He turned to his companion, who was looking cool and confident, as always. Charles fought down a twinge of annoyance as he considered how rumpled and flushed he must look in comparison. "Robert, I'd like you to meet John Bernstein, a former colleague of mine, and the reason we've come all the way out here. John likes to chase wild geese, and also likes to involve as many others in the chase as possible…"

Bernstein cut him off with a sharp look and took the hand Robert offered, then introduced Akil Hamid to the two visitors.

"Gentlemen, would you care to join us for a cup of coffee? Or tea, perhaps?" Akil offered, stepping towards Charles and shepherding him towards the mess tent. Charles, still clutching the case containing the diamond, nodded distractedly and allowed himself to be led to the refreshments.

* * *

"Excuse me, Professor Bernstein, but have you seen Eliana recently?" Bernstein looked up as Ardeth approached the group of men seated at the table in the mess tent, his quiet voice shielding, but not entirely hiding, the concern behind his seemingly innocuous question.

"Ellie? No, I can't say that I have," Bernstein answered him, turning to Akil Hamid for confirmation. "Have you?" Hamid shook his head. "Why? What's the matter? What do you need her for?"

Ardeth shrugged, concealing his concern. It had been over an hour since Eliana had disappeared, and he was getting worried. He knew that he shouldn't have let her out of his sight, but he had needed to go out into the desert to let his Med Jai brother know what was happening in the camp, and why they were being quarantined. Brief though their conversation had been, it was apparently long enough for Eliana to slip off and disappear, and Ardeth was worried. Not so much over what she would knowingly do, as to what she could stumble into, ignorant of the past as she was, and connected to it as only she could be.

"Maybe she's in her tent, reading. Did you try there?" Bernstein asked. Ardeth nodded. That, of course, had been the first place he had looked, with no success. Then, he'd asked around and discovered that she'd been helping Sabir, the cook, for a short while, until he grew disgusted with her ineptness, and sent her away. After that, she had simply disappeared.

Bernstein shrugged. "Well, she's around here somewhere, she has to be. Nowhere else for her to go. I know one place where she won't be, that's for sure. She won't be over at the pyramid. The girl's shown no interest in it at all since we've been here." He shook his head, dismayed that a child of his could be so uninterested in something he considered the crowning achievement of his life. "No, she's here at the camp, somewhere. Look around a little more, why don't you?"

Ardeth knew that he had been dismissed, and he left the men, wandering a little ways away, wondering where Eliana could have gone. He wished he could be a bit more certain, like her father was, that Eliana wouldn't set foot anywhere near the pyramid of Ahm Shere. Suddenly, the older men's conversation caught his attention again.

"Well, you're here, the diamond's here, and we're stuck." Bernstein sounded irritated. Worried about Eric, for sure, but irritated at the inactivity, nonetheless. He continued. "Nothing else to do until the other pilot returns with the results of those tests. We might as well take the thing over to the pyramid and see what happens when we set the diamond in place. What do you say?"

Ardeth listened intently as the other men, with various degrees of enthusiasm, agreed. He watched as they stood, and as Charles, with some reluctance, turned the case containing the diamond over to Bernstein. In no particular hurry, the four men made their way out of the tent and headed in the general direction of the excavation, stopping to talk to several of the students on the way.

Suddenly, Ardeth was filled with a gnawing sense of dread. He knew, somehow—he didn't bother questioning how—that Eliana had, indeed, for some unknown reason, decided to visit the pyramid today. And now these men were planning to replace the capstone. The coincidence of those two unlikely events happening at exactly the same time was too much for Ardeth to believe. Instead, it seemed to him that fate had finally decided to make her move, and had managed, in the end, to catch him completely unprepared.

Ardeth ran, racing towards the excavation, but circling around the tents in a less direct route, so that hopefully he would remain unseen. He had no desire to explain to anyone why he was running hell-bent for the pyramid, or why it was so urgent that Eliana not go inside. He knew that he had to reach her before she did something to upset the precarious balance that for now was in their favor, but could be tipped by the slightest weight in the other direction. And he certainly had to reach her before the archaeologists replaced the diamond. The thought of her trapped in the pyramid, as the diamond unleashed whatever power it contained, terrified him, and he knew that he must reach her, regardless of what it cost him, before she came to any harm.

_May Allah help us all,_ he prayed as he ran. _Make my feet swift, that I will not arrive too late_.

* * *

Stepping out of the hot, dry brightness of the desert and into the cool, moist shadows of the pyramid was like crossing a bridge from one world to another. As Eliana entered the outermost passageway and slowly walked down to the doorway at the far end, she couldn't help but feel as though she'd stepped back in time. The flashlight she carried cast strange shadows on the stone walls, creating flickering images that danced and writhed ahead of her, leading the way into the bowels of the massive structure.

The silence was alive. Her hiking boots made little noise on the stone floor, but each pebble she kicked, each sound she made, every breath she took made her feel as though she were disturbing the place and whatever was inside. She felt like an interloper, an unwelcome presence in a sacred place, and the feeling grew with every step she took, making her question her judgment in coming here.

The feeling of oppressive loneliness also grew within her the deeper she went into the pyramid's gloom. What had started out as an uncomfortable feeling of isolation and aloneness had now grown in to a bone-deep sense of separation—of being cut off from everyone and everything she held dear. She felt adrift in time and space, a traveler picking through the rubble of the past, looking desperately to find a way home. Never had she been as aware of her isolation and vulnerability as she was now, entering the inner sanctum of Ahm Shere's crumbling golden monument.

And at the same time, in total paradox, she felt a deep and abiding sense of the rightness of her being in this place, almost as if it had been waiting for her all of her life. Waiting and watching, sleeping under the desert sand, until the time was right, and the wheel had turned, and fate's door was ready to open. Almost as if she were finally taking her preordained spot in some rich, ancient tapestry.

Eliana was struggling with these juxtaposed emotions, debating with herself about whether to go on or to turn back when she stepped through the doorway and entered the great hall. As the light from her flashlight bounced off the high walls and ceiling, cracked and falling though they were, she caught her breath at the majesty and magnificence of what this place must once have been. The great staircase was intact, though littered with rubble, and as she slowly walked down to the floor, she was transfixed by the living history that surrounded her. She had heard her father and Akil Hamid discussing the seal at the bottom of the stairway, and although she admired it, she stepped to one side as she reached the bottom stair, and was careful not to place her foot anywhere on the mosaic itself. Feeling silly at this blatant act of superstitious nonsense, Eliana laughed nervously, and went on.

She wasn't sure where she was going, only that she felt oddly compelled to continue, as if some invisible presence was urging her on, prodding at her from the darkness and shadows, herding her towards something just ahead, just around the next corner. Her father's and Eric's vivid descriptions of the inside of the pyramid must have made more of an impression on her than she had realized, for she walked confidently through the hall and towards one of the small antechambers at its far side with little hesitation. _It's almost as if I'd been here before myself_, she thought, and then brushed aside the notion. She had trouble dismissing it entirely, though, because in truth, it _did_ feel as though she had been there before. She seemed to know where to go, and what to expect, and the sensation alarmed her to some degree. _It's just that Dad is talking about it all the time,_ she reasoned. _That's all. Nothing else._

At the entrance to the antechamber, she had to jump over a fairly large crack in the floor. She leaped over it easily, but landed on a loose rock on the other side, losing her balance momentarily. Her ungraceful efforts disturbed a large, black insect that darted out of the depths and scurried across her path. She suppressed a shudder. There had to be any number of insects making their home in here, and she was lucky if only one of them made its presence known.

Moving on, she shone the flashlight around, and illuminated the small room. Three tunnels on its far wall led into what must have been the temple sanctuary that she had heard the men talking about. From there, she knew that there was a tunnel that led down to the grotto and the statue, but she had no intention of going that far. No, she'd take a quick look around the temple area, and then head back. She'd already been gone long enough.

Heading for the middle tunnel, she paused, a sharp stab of anxiety once again jabbing at her insides. And with the anxiety came a sudden wave of dizziness, one of those strange feelings of _otherness_, of being somewhere else, someone else, that she hadn't felt for days. It swept over like a tidal force, and she stopped, just short of the tunnel, reaching out a hand to steady herself against the wall. The stone was smooth, and cool, and felt good against skin that suddenly felt too hot. In fact, she felt hot all over, flushed and dizzy, and she heard a strange buzzing in her ears, a buzzing that could have been voices, but surely wasn't…

_I must go on from here by myself._

_No! Without your powers, he might kill you!_

_He cannot kill me. It is my destiny—our destiny. Once the Scorpion King is defeated, you and I will rule the world—together._

_No! I cannot lose you again!_

Eliana pressed her hand to her mouth, as the words swam in her mind, and the sense of disorientation increased, and the shadows swirled around her. She had to sit down—she had to, or she would fall over. Staggering, she made her way towards a small pile of rocks and boulders, remnants of what must have once been the ceiling, and half-kneeled, half-fell to the floor. She sat, her knees drawn up, her head resting on them, waiting for the spinning sensation to end. Finally, she began to feel like herself again, and lifted her head. The buzzing in her ears was gone, her vision wasn't swimming, and she didn't feel so strange. She would sit here for a few minutes, she decided, and then leave, and not come back again. She could help her father just as much on the outside of the pyramid as inside, and she didn't want to be in here again. Ever. No matter how wonderful or beautiful or rare it was. She would turn around and walk back out and not spare it a second glance.

She reached back with her right hand to lever herself into a more comfortable position, and her hand touched…cloth. Not stone, not sand, but what felt like old, dusty wool. And she froze, the skin of her fingers and hand tingling as though they'd just touched a live current. Briefly, the dizziness returned, but then faded away, and with it, the psychic tingle along the nerves of her arm. Slowly, she turned, and knelt, and trained the beam of the flashlight on what she had just discovered.

The black fabric was old, and dirty, and looked as though it had been there for years. But not for millennia, surely. Cloth left out for thousands of years would certainly have deteriorated into dust by now, and this cloth looked old, but not that ancient. Perhaps fifty years, maybe a hundred, but definitely not countless centuries. And what did that mean? Had someone been here that recently, to have left this behind? But how? This place had lain buried under the desert sand. Puzzling over the mystery, Eliana reached again to touch the piece of cloth. It was expensive fabric, the soft, lightweight wool fashioned in a tight, fine weave that bespoke the best in craftsmanship. And all that protruded from under the pile of rubble was a small portion of the cloth itself. The rest lay buried.

Eliana sat back on her haunches for a second or two, staring at the scrap of fabric. What was it doing here? She felt the fine weave again, and once again felt that jolt of awareness pass through her hand. A memory started to edge into the farthest corner of her mind, and she stopped breathing, as a vision of smooth, golden skin and an arrogant, handsome face swam before her eyes. _The priest?__ Why would I think of him?_ Suddenly, it didn't matter. None of it mattered—the only thing she cared about was unearthing the rest of this cloth. Irrational or not, she was suddenly consumed with the need to find the rest of the material, and she began to dig. She grabbed at the rubble, hurling small chunks of rock and stone behind her, not concerned with moving cautiously, or worried about disturbing anything or causing the pile to become unstable and fall. The only thing that mattered was finding the rest of the…_robe_?

She finally reached the last, largest boulder, and realized that she would have to stand up and put all her weight behind a mighty push in order to roll it off to the side. Standing, brushing off the dirt that caked her jeans and T-shirt, she braced her hands on the good-sized chunk of stone and pushed. Nothing. She held her breath, braced again, and heaved with all her might. The rock moved, tumbling over itself and rolling off the cloth, and the momentum of its move made Eliana fall to her knees once again.

Slowly, almost reverently, she reached out and gathered the crushed, filthy fabric from the floor and stood up, shaking it out as she did, and the material unfurled and hung from her hands. Indeed, it was a garment, a robe, and Eliana's hands shook as her mind recognized it before her brain could, or was willing to. Black, long-sleeved, high collared, trimmed in ebony silk, the garment was fit to be worn by a king. And her mind filled in the rest of the image—a tall, striking man, looking down at her with a mischievous half-smile, the light of dozens of torches reflecting off his hazel eyes, making them gleam with golden fire. Heedless of its filthy condition, Eliana pressed the fabric to her cheek, and closed her eyes, feeling the fine wool graze her skin like a caress. Taking a breath, was it her imagination, or did she smell the faint, ghostly trace of a fragrance—a sensual, erotic mixture of musk and spice that had haunted her dreams for weeks?

Eliana was almost weeping as she clutched the robe to her and buried her face in its folds. Logic and reality suddenly seemed far away, abstract concepts, and she was afraid, mortally afraid. Why would this be here? Why? _How?_ What could it possibly mean, that she had found an actual, physical object that matched so perfectly an image she had only dreamed?

The sense of loss and emptiness was greater than before—magnified tenfold by her discovery of the discarded garment. It felt like a piece of her own soul was missing—abandoned in a cold, dark cavern, lost forever. She did cry, then, although she had no idea why. But she was finally beyond logic, beyond reason, beyond caring.

_No! I cannot lose you again!_

Picking up the flashlight, Eliana held the robe tightly to her breast, as if it were a talisman of some sort, and turned down the center tunnel. Her earlier resolve to leave had evaporated like fog in the morning, and she knew that she had to see what was in the temple sanctuary. There was something there, she knew—she was being pulled towards it like iron to a magnet, and she wanted answers, not just the endless questions roiling in her mind.

Stopping at the end of the narrow tunnel, she shone the light around the circular room, taking in the broad, semicircular moat around the almost-island of the altar; the tall columns, almost all of them smashed and in ruins at her feet; the overturned gong; the paintings and writings on the walls, many of them obliterated by cracks and fissures and deep gouges.

Making her way slowly across the debris and decay, she found herself at the edge of the deep moat, and tentatively, she shone her light into it, hoping to see the bottom. Nothing. Just endless meters of blackness, stretching away as far and as deep as she could see, nothingness fading into nothingness. She looked around, and saw the toppled column that Eric, Doug, and the two older men must have used to cross the chasm to the altar area. A bit rickety, for her standards, but she guessed it would have to do.

Tentatively, she made her way to the overturned pillar of stone, and tested her weight on it. It held, and slowly, cautiously, holding her arms out to the side, she made her way across. She was about to step off the pillar, and onto the arguably more stable ground on the other side, when the beam of her flashlight caught a gleam of gold shining from a narrow ledge about a meter down in the pit. Frowning, she stepped down, and turned back to take a closer look, kneeling at the edge of the crevice and shining the light down into the murky darkness.

There it was! A long, cylindrical object, almost like a spear. She trained the beam over the length of the long object, and noticed the star on the end, with one point broken off. How had her father and Eric missed this, she wondered, puzzled that they would have overlooked something so obvious. Carefully placing the robe on the ground next to her, and laying the flashlight on it, she stretched out flat on the ground, laying near the edge, and reached down with her hand to try to grab the thing. Her fingertips brushed it, but she couldn't quite manage to grab hold. Leaning a bit further out, she bent over, stretched, and just managed to grasp the shaft of the spear with her finger and thumb. Slowly she lifted it, careful not to drop it or scratch it against the edge, and finally, she rolled away from the chasm, the spear safely in her grip.

Standing, she gathered up the robe, her flashlight, and the spear, and walked towards the altar, intending to take a closer look at the spear. She managed to take three steps, when she felt a blinding spasm of pure, elemental energy arc out through the shaft of the spear and into her, racing through her fingers and up her arms, giving her a jolt like none she'd ever had before. The sheer power of the shock drove her to her hands and knees, and she dropped both the robe and the flashlight, the latter rolling away and coming to rest against a heaved up chunk of floor, its light flickering but still managing to illuminate at least a small portion of the cavernous room. Not that it was needed, for as the bolt of energy raced through Eliana, it gathered up her consciousness with it, and carried it away, back through the years, through the decades, and when Eliana again awakened, she—her mind, at least—was seventy years in the past, looking out through eyes that were not her own, yet were. In a small, dim corner of her soul, she knew she was not really there, but that didn't matter. Her body may have been lying in a heap on the cold floor of the pyramid at that very moment, but her mind, her soul, was no longer there with it. Through whatever power had been released by the spear, Eliana was now imprisoned in some other body, some other mind, and she was helpless to do anything but watch, as history played itself out before her eyes.

She was back at the entrance to the tunnel, looking around the room, her eyes taking in the terrible destruction of the ferocious battle that had just ended. _And been lost_, the mind she was for the moment sharing added, in a scathing, malicious tone. She wanted to shake her head, to clear it, but she couldn't control the body she was in—all she could do was wait, and watch. Suddenly, she became aware of yet another presence there, in her mind, this one quieter, filled with dread, filled with sorrow, filled with an aching sense of having walked this path before.

Because she could do nothing else, Eliana ignored them both, and simply watched as the room, the whole structure, began to implode, massive chunks of rock falling from the ceiling, heaving up from the floor, the whole pyramid going up in a cataclysm of monstrous proportion. And then, across the eternity of space that stretched between the relative safety of the tunnel and the yawning maw of the pit, she saw him. The priest, and another man—but she dismissed this one at once as unimportant, irrelevant—hanging from the edge of the chasm, calling out to her.

But the other man—_O'Connell?—_wasn't calling to her, after all. Her body turned to look at the woman standing next to her, and she recognized her as—_Evelyn? Nefertiri?_ It was to this woman that the man was calling, yelling for her to go away, to go back, to save herself and Alex—_their child?_ The woman didn't listen, though, charging instead through the rain of boulders and falling rock, nimbly side-stepping and dancing through the chaos, running through hell itself and throwing herself down at the edge of the pit, hauling the man out and to safety.

Her eyes focused once more on the priest, and as he called out to her, begging her to come and help him, Eliana felt a dangerous, inevitable battle begin in the mind she shared. Two other minds, both willful, both determined, squared off in a battle for supremacy over the body, and the decision that would be made. The priest called again, only a name this time, and Eliana watched, paralyzed, as she felt the internal struggle. In the end, though, it was no real battle at all, for the one was young, and selfish, and cold-hearted, and fueled by the almost overpowering instinct for survival. The other was ancient, centuries old, fighting with all she could muster to save her love, her life, but she was tired, and weak—the curse on her soul dragging at her and making her vulnerable, unable to wrest control away from the younger one. And in the space of a heartbeat, it was over. Eliana watched horrified, as the body she was in screamed a single word, and turned and ran back down the tunnel, heading for the outside, and a dubious safety.

Suddenly, she was no longer in the body—and she knew, somehow, that that was a blessing. Instead, she was floating in the room, disembodied but present all the same, and she watched as agony contorted the priest's face, and he whispered a question, a name, and the expression etched on his features would haunt her until the end of eternity. With one last, haunted look at the other couple—safe now, and in each other's arms—the priest might have smiled, but Eliana couldn't be sure—the look was too fleeting, and the utter devastation it faded into too heart rending—he simply let go of the edge and fell away into nothingness. But Eliana could see now that it wasn't nothingness at all—the entire pit was filled with an evil red glow that writhed and churned like the fires of hell. And perhaps it was her imagination, but as the priest fell, she could imagine that thousands of hands were clutching at him, holding him fast and imprisoning him—and a hopeless, agonizing grief settled on her soul like chains.

At last, the vision faded, and Eliana felt herself return to her body—her own, familiar body, safely lying on the floor of the ruined pyramid, but the damage had been done, and the gift of the vision would come at a terrible price. Eliana knew that she would never be the same again. She knew that somehow she had been granted a look back into the past—_her past_—and as irrational, as illogical as it might be, it had been _her_ back there, as well as the other two, who had walked away from the priest and left him alone to die. All her sound, reasonable arguments against past lives and rebirth faded away into dust at the vividness of the vision she had just experienced, and the terrible pain that accompanied it. For she knew, without a doubt, that she had loved the priest, loved him with her whole heart, her whole soul, and that somehow, they were two halves of the same whole, bound together throughout eternity. And she had betrayed him—utterly and completely betrayed him—and abandoned him to the whims and vagaries of a vicious fate. No, Eliana would never be the same again, and the devastation and grief that she felt in her soul would never leave her.

Slowly, as if she were a hundred years old, instead of a mere twenty-five, Eliana got to her feet, and simply stood there, looking down at the spear, and the robe, and she felt ancient, used up, a withered, empty husk. She felt like crying, like screaming, like howling her misery for all to hear. But she did none of those things. Instead, her mind skimmed back over the dreams—the memories, she corrected herself—that she had experienced in the past weeks, and grasped onto one small detail, grabbing it and not letting go. And she stared at the spear.

_The Scepter of Osiris…A tool for either destruction or salvation…One of the keys to the underworld._

_So it could be used to break other curses, as well?_

_If one were of a mind—or heart—to use it in such a way, yes._

Slowly, Eliana bent to pick up the robe, and the battered golden staff, and again, she stood silently, unmoving. What was she to do now? She tested the weight of the spear in her hand, and it was light, and flexible—an elegant, beautiful weapon. But could it be more? She had no working knowledge of ancient religions, much less ancient curses, and she had no idea of what she was doing anyway—she didn't know if the priest was truly cursed, or if he was in the underworld, or, for that matter, if she had gone completely insane. Still…

Eliana looked up at the altar, and smiled—a small, tiny smile, one that held nothing but the faintest speck of hope. _Still_…

She walked over to where her flashlight had rolled, and, leaving it on the floor, adjusted its angle so that it illuminated the altar as much as possible. Carefully, she folded the robe, and with one last caressing touch, laid it gently on the stone floor. Walking up the three steps to the altar, Eliana placed the spear on the cold stone slab, and rested her hands lightly on either side of it. Closing her eyes, she voiced a small, silent prayer to her own God, asking him to forgive her for what her religion would surely consider sacrilege.

She opened them again, and for the first time, noticed a small, circular opening at the center of the other side of the altar. Had it been there before? Surely it had, and she had just not noticed it because of the angle of the shadows. Reaching across the width of stone, Eliana traced the opening with one finger. Strange, it seemed to be just large enough for…her eyes fell on the end of the spear, and within seconds, she had picked it up and fitted it into the stone of the temple, where it fit—almost perfectly, as though made for it. Still, it was a bit loose, and with a final jiggling shove, Eliana pushed it in and felt the stone give just a bit.

With a _click_ and a _swish_, a concealed opening revealed itself in front of her—a thin, stone lid sliding back from a shallow depression in the altar's surface, its skillfully carved edges having fit almost seamlessly into the solid-looking slab of stone. She reached in, and her fingers fell upon an old, withered piece of papyrus, with ancient hieroglyphics traced on it, the lines so old and faint from age that it was nearly illegible. But still, Eliana could read it well enough to recognize it for what it was—an ancient incantation, an invocation to the god Amun-Re, and as she read the words, her eyes grew wider, and her expression more and more filled with wonder.

Finishing her silent perusal, Eliana laid the paper out in front of her, and looked up at the spear, now firmly embedded in the center of the stone altar. For a moment, and a moment only, she allowed doubt to crawl through her, and she wondered at the wisdom of what she was about to do. The sane part of her—the old Eliana—smirked and thought, _What__ are you going to do? Read from an old scrap of paper? Nothing much that could do, except make you feel pretty foolish._ But the other part—the new Eliana, the one that was just coming into being—believed, and felt purpose in that belief. And that new Eliana shrugged aside the doubts, and the fears, and the uncertainty, and held tight to wonder, and awe, and hope, and she began to read…

_Amun__-Re.__ Amun Dei._

_Death is only the beginning…_

_Life circles back on itself,_

_A river flowing ever forward_

_And ever returning to its source._

_Paths are chosen; others fade away_

_Until once more the wheel circles back._

_The chains are unlocked, the door thrown open._

_Return, then, and travel along your path once more._

_Choose honor, that you may be deemed worthy;_

_Choose service, that you may have purpose;_

_Choose knowledge, for that is the key to wisdom;_

_Choose love, that your hearts may live forever._

Closing her eyes, Eliana finished reading, and again added a silent prayer to her own God. _Please, please make this right. I don't know what else to do. I have no idea what this is about, even. I just know that something terrible happened here long ago, and it needs to be made right. Please._

For a moment, silence fell across the temple and the altar as Eliana's words, spoken and unspoken, faded away into the surrounding shadows. She opened her eyes slowly, her heart leaden, the shroud of grief beginning to settle once more around her. She sighed. It was getting late, and she should go. She didn't relish the thought of walking back alone through the pyramid and the desert. Slowly, she turned to walk down the altar steps, and gather her things.

But before she took a single step, she heard the wind. From a great distance it came, howling through the tunnels and corridors of the pyramid like a great beast of the jungle, and Eliana had the sense to be very afraid, as the gods—her God, and the pagan gods of the Egyptians—answered the summons.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

_Give me a mouth. I want to talk. Give me my severed legs and I'll walk. Give me hands and arms and fists and I'll shout and curse. I'll crush the skull of the snake. Throw open the door of heaven. Perhaps Ra has two jawbones to give me. He'll open my blind eyes, straighten my bent feet. He'll give me legs and I'll rise. I'll rise. By heaven I'll walk. I know my heart. It stirs within me. It throbs in my right hand. Blood quickens beneath my skin._

_Give me my heart. Let it pump again life's power in me, infuse my hands and feet with spirit. Give me my heart. Let me rise and walk. I am quickened. No more sleep. No more dream. No more death._

_--Excerpt from "Giving a Heart to Osiris", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

The wind howled through the corridors of the pyramid, racing towards the center, racing towards the altar, racing towards her. Eliana spun around, grabbing for the spear, when she saw that the star at the end of the shaft was glowing, bathed in a soft, glowing whiteness. No external source illuminated the star—the light emanating from it was internal, a gentle, radiant glow that grew and brightened, and began to dance and flicker like something alive. No heat came from it, but it looked warm, and as it brightened to an almost blinding intensity, Eliana had to shade her eyes and turn away.

Through eyes narrowed to slits, peering through her fingers, Eliana watched as light from the star began to gather in upon itself, becoming narrower and narrower in focus, until all that was left was a thin, laser-like beam of pure, white energy, still as bright as the original light had been, but now channeled and targeted outwards—towards the floor, and towards a seal there, a seal that no one had yet noticed, a seal bearing the name of the great god, Amun-Re. As the light struck the seal, the sound of the wind died away for a moment, and the pyramid was cloaked in a hushed, waiting silence.

With no warning, a clap of thunder reverberated through the entire structure, shaking it to its foundation, and the wind came rushing towards the temple sanctuary again, howling and screaming with even more force than before. The sound was terrifying, as though a thousand banshees had been released from the pits of hell. Leaving the spear behind, Eliana made a dash down the steps and gathered the robe and her flashlight, looking around frantically to find somewhere, anywhere to take cover. But it was too late.

The gale-force wind howled down through the tunnel, and into the room, knocking the flashlight from her hand and plunging the room into darkness. Clutching for a handhold somewhere, anywhere, she staggered towards the wall of the chamber as the wind continued to rush past her, the sound of it screaming through the room like the roar of a million freight trains. Unbelievably, the torrent gained even more force, and Eliana was knocked off her feet, rolling across the floor, still clutching the robe with one hand, but the other hand scrabbling madly to find some handhold, something to hang onto to stop her insane flight. Her tumble was cut short when her left temple struck the pedestal of a statue of Anubis, and her body crumpled to rest at the feet of the god, the ebony robe still cradled in her arms, the world going black around her.

Gathering force, the wind somehow began to coalesce into a swirling column above the black, empty pit that surrounded the island of the altar. The tornado swirled faster and faster, the howling gathering more and more intensity as the gyration continued. At the base of the column of wind, a red dot began to glow, widening and spreading forth throughout the pit like a bloody stain. A rift in the very fabric of space and time, the red ooze spread like gangrene on diseased flesh. Disembodied screams emanated from the murky ooze, and to an observant eye, what almost looked like human hands and bodies began to appear in the evil glow, writhing and twisting in the grips of some infernal torment. Demons, too, appeared, fangs and claws pulling and tearing at the tormented prisoners.

Yet even as the stain of this hellish vision spread, the white light that extended from the spear to the seal on the floor bounced up and hit the column of whirling air dead center, and where it hit, a glowing ball of pure, healing energy began to take shape within the column of wind and extend downwards towards the living hell, bathing the writhing demons in a clean, bright sunlight that they shrank back from as if touching a living flame. Screaming in agony, cursing in vicious rage, the demons backed away from the light, ceasing for a moment to care about tormenting the human forms within their midst.

As they loosened their grip on their victims, the white light coalesced around one of the forms, cradling it almost lovingly and surrounding it with an impenetrable barrier of pure brightness. Finally, the demons realized what was happening, and they shrieked with impotent rage. Fear cast aside, they swept in a fury towards the light and the still form within it—surely the enemy was not within their midst, stealing one of their own! This was beyond anything they had experienced before—it was unheard of, it was unspeakable, it went against every law—natural or supernatural, the laws of man or of gods. These imps from hell were to be unfettered, unrestrained, unstoppable in the torment they heaped upon their prisoners. But now, one was being carried off, taken away, removed from their reach, and they were enraged.

Mindless with fury, they hurled their deformed shapes against the light, screaming in impotent rage when they were hurled back yet again by the wind, falling with terrible finality into the pit. With its prize securely enfolded in its protective barrier, the light began to gather itself in again, retracting back from the pit and rising into the whirling column of air. As the light became centered once again in the whirlwind, another resounding clap of thunder echoed through the chamber, and the connection between the two dimensions was severed. Like water going down a drain, the evil red glow swirled around the vortex, in ever narrowing circles, until at last it winked out of sight, leaving nothing behind but a faint trace of sulfur in the air.

Secure at last from the clutches of the pit, and its hellish inhabitants, the human form, still enfolded in the light, was borne up into the whirlwind and carried to the altar. Building in intensity now, the light began to gather around and over the figure, surrounding it and almost permeating it with its glow. Its purpose fulfilled, the whirlwind subsided and the howling wind died down to a gentle breeze, fading once again to still air. The form on the altar jerked once, twice, and then lay still, as the light became a radiant glow that surrounded and hid the body from sight, but continued to bathe it in healing, loving warmth.

And after three thousand years, Imhotep, cursed high priest of Osiris, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, outcast and damned by the same society that had once worshipped him almost as a god himself, finally knew peace.


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

_The eye is everywhere. There is no act it does not see, no desire it can not hold, no secret that can not be known. The heavens speak. The flame bursts on your cheeks. Things are possible. In a moment we live a million years, a thousand lives in a breath._

_Behold the eye that holds you. Without hands, it made you. You will be its hands. Without tongue, you become its tongue. Your work is its will. If what you make—your body, your love, your peace—is good, it shall be looked on by gods and endure forever._

_--Excerpt from "The Eye of God", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

He awoke to a world with no color, no sound, no texture. There was nothing but light. He was surrounded by light, bathed in it, breathed it, floated in it. It was all, it was nothing. He felt it in his pores, in his mind, in his soul. It was alive, but not alive as are most living beings. It simply was, and always had been, and always would be.

Imhotep could feel the light all around him, and in his first seconds of real consciousness, knew that he was not alone. He could feel the presence of the other, as surely as the other could sense him.

"Who are you?" The words were thoughts only, not physical words. Physical sound had no place here, in this world of light.

"You are awake, then? Good. It is almost time." The light spoke to him, the words forming themselves in his brain, their sound the purest of tones, their melody like that of the most beautiful music ever created. Even though the voice spoke only to his mind, he could hear the words perfectly, and for now, he was content. Let the light answer as it would. For now, there was no pain, no misery, no betrayal…

"Who am I?" The light continued, pulsing and throbbing with life and energy. "I am known by many names. To you and your people, I am Amun-Re. The Hebrew slaves know me as El Shaddai. To others still, I am Allah. Across the sea, I am known by yet other names…Call me as you will. It matters not. What I am is not defined by any name."

"Why have you released me from the pit? The curse I bore carried your name—the name of Amun-Re." The question was almost academic in nature, rather than personal, because here in the light, the past did not matter, nor did the future. In the light, there was no time, no history, only an endless, eternal now.

"The curse you bore was placed upon you by mortals, and was permitted because it served our purposes. For your sins, you suffered, and suffered grievously. It is finished. It was enough. You are needed. The time has come." The voice dismissed three thousand years of torment like the merest blink of an eye. As though the Hom Dai and the pit of Anubis had been a mere slap on the hand. Even within the protective cocoon of light, Imhotep felt the tiniest seed of anger take root.

"I am needed? How? What time has come?" This time, the question carried a hint of emotion, and the light pulsed warmly, almost as though it chuckled at the challenge it sensed.

"Years ago, a great plague was unleashed upon the earth. At the time, it was necessary, and it fulfilled our purposes. Such has happened occasionally during the course of earth's history. The plague came, and went, and achieved its purpose, and was buried." The light rippled, and it seemed almost to sigh. "But the curiosity of man can never be underestimated, and the curse has been rediscovered and has once again sprung to life. This time, it serves no purpose of ours, and the powers of darkness would subvert it, and use it to do their evil, and this must not be allowed."

"Surely evil has walked the earth before, and been left free to ravage the innocent as it will. Why would you intercede now? Why is this time different?" Again, the light was pleased at the hint of challenge, because it signaled a return of the man's strength and will.

"At times, evil is necessary. Is it not true that even the works of darkness can be made to serve the purposes of light? It is our will and our pleasure to create and mold according to our greater purposes. If one looks closely enough, the history of mankind is riddled with the fingerprints of the divine." The light paused, and then continued, the words gathering shape and form and substance, and unparalleled beauty. "Such is the case now. This evil will not be permitted. The time is not right, mankind is not ready, we will not allow it.

"You ask why you have been chosen to meet this need. The answer is complex in its simplicity. It has occurred to us that we can right two wrongs with this choice of paths." The light paused, as if to consider its words carefully. "It has occurred to us that perhaps your punishment has been…harsh. If you succeed in your task, two goals will have been achieved. The plague will be stopped, and your punishment will have ended."

Imhotep paused before forming the next question in his mind. His wits were slowly returning, and he wanted to make absolutely sure of something. "Ended? The curse will be lifted…forever? Simply by my completing this task for you?"

Again, the light seemed to chuckle. "Do not make it sound so easy. The task is challenging, and there will be other…obstacles."

Imhotep dismissed the notion of any obstacle being insurmountable. "Suppose I complete this task. Then what? Will I finally experience the peace of the afterlife? Will it truly be over?" He could feel the kernel of hope take root within his soul.

"Ah, already you exhibit the impatience of humanity. Perhaps the question you should ask is what has already happened. But for a brief pause here, the curse is already lifted. You are mortal. After you complete the task, you will be given a choice…"

"A choice? What choice?" The thought of actually _having_ a choice in some matter pertaining to his destiny was a novel one for Imhotep, who had long ago been stripped of most choices, except the choice to survive, and to strike back against his adversaries.

"You will have two choices, once you have completed the task. You will choose your path. You may choose to remain mortal, and live out the years you would have lived before, or…"

"Live out my years in whatever time this happens to be? _Millennia_ have passed since the time of my birth! You would leave me stranded here, a stranger in this time? What is my other choice?"

"You may choose to abandon earthly life and instead go to the lands of the West. You are right—you exist well beyond your natural timeline. But still, you will be given that choice. We will not make it for you." The light pulsed again, and Imhotep sensed something behind the voice—compassion for what he had suffered, certainly; regret for allowing that suffering? He couldn't be certain. Still, his choice was easy. It had been made years ago, hanging on that ledge.

"I will choose now. I will complete this task for you, and then I choose the afterlife, if the curse is truly over." He paused, then added. "I have nothing left to tie me to the earth, nothing left for which to hold on to mortal life."

"So certain are you. So decisive in your choice. As though you are aware of all of the intricacies of our tapestry." This time, Imhotep was certain the light was laughing at him. "And you have not yet asked about the other…the female."

Even after all these years, the eternity he had spent in the pit, Imhotep could still feel the pain, as fresh as the day it had happened. Ah, gods, what new torture was going to be heaped upon him? Everything that had happened after that day in Seti's chamber—her death, his failure to resurrect her, the death of his priests, his death, and the curse of the Hom Dai—all had been a direct result of his blind, foolish love for a woman. A woman who had proven beyond a doubt that she did not feel as he did.

"I do not care. I do not wish to care. The abomination that I foolishly labeled love is why I am here before you now. Let the woman's fate be hers alone. As is mine. And still I tell you…I choose death, and the promise of the afterlife."

"And I tell _you_, mortal, that the choice will not be made now!" The light flared slightly hotter at its core, and the words it spoke into his mind reflected anger at his impertinence. Then, as though remembering that it spoke to a mere mortal, the tone gentled once more. "You say you do not care about the woman's fate, so be it! But words may differ from truth, and only the passage of time will determine what is in your hearts. Even through the millennia, your souls have been as one, though her curse, and her punishment, has differed from yours. You are still connected so—and I tell you, your paths will cross once more before this tapestry is complete. Still, the choice will be yours."

"I will not choose differently."

"We shall see. It matters not at the present. The time has come. Are you ready?" The voice was softer, less distinct, and the light was slightly dimmer, as well. Imhotep could almost feel the sensation of being gently lowered, his back coming into contact with smooth, hard stone. And he felt panic—he was adrift in an unknown time, an unknown place, and he had nothing with which to fight. He didn't even know the nature of the plague he was to overcome.

"Wait! You have not even told me what this plague is! And I am _mortal_? How can I complete this task if you have stripped me of all my powers?" The question was asked somberly, but the light could sense the fierce anxiety underneath.

"Do not fear—the plague will make itself known soon enough. You will recognize it as such, and know. As for your mortality—your powers were already gone, stripped from you during your last waking. They remain so and _will_ remain so. You are mortal. The curse is ended. You are what you once were, and what you will be. You are no more or no less than what you were created to be. You have the tools that you will need, and the gifts that you already possessed will be all that is required."

"But _how_?"

"The answer lies within you. Look within, to what you are, to what you have always been, to the gifts you once used and valued, to the very flesh and sinew that has been restored to you, and you will have the answer." This last was a mere whisper in his mind, as the light faded more and more rapidly, and finally winked out altogether. The voice was gone, the light was gone, and the enveloping sense of peace and security was nearly gone as well. All that was left were endless questions, a strange sense of loss, and the feel of cold, hard stone against his back.

Lying on the temple altar, Imhotep stirred, moving his hands over the smooth, flat surface. He breathed in a lungful of the pyramid's stale air, opened his eyes to the blackness of its interior, and felt his heart begin to beat again.


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

_I came into being as I came into being. I grew as I grew. I changed as I change. My mind is fire, my soul fire. The cobra wakes and spits fire in my eyes. I rise through ochre smoke into black air enclosed in a shower of stars. I am what I have made. I am the seed of every god, beautiful as evening, hard as light. I am the last four days of yesterday, four screams from the edges of the earth—beauty, terror, truth, madness—the phoenix on his pyre._

_In a willow I made my nest of flowers and snakes, sandalwood and myrrh. I am waiting for eternity. I'm waiting for years to pass before I dance on flame, turn this desert to ash, before I rise, waking from gold and purple dreams into the season of god. I will live forever in the fire spun from my own wings. I'll suffer burns that burn to heal. I destroy and create myself like the sun that rises burning from the east and dies burning in the west. To know the fire, I become the fire. I am power. I am light. I am forever. On earth and in heaven I am. This is my body, my work. This is my deliverance._

_--Excerpt from "Becoming the Phoenix", Egyptian Book of the Dead_

_as translated by Normandi Ellis_

The room was pitch black, and though he tried, Imhotep could see nothing. The preternatural sight that had allowed him to see just as well in total darkness as in broad daylight was gone, taken from him along with his immortality, and he was as blind as any mortal would be, trapped underground with no light source. He moved his hands, finding the edge of the slab of stone, and traced its perimeter, realizing that he was lying upon a table of sorts.

As his hand moved down the edge of the altar, his arm brushed against the cool metal of the Scepter of Osiris, and he stopped, grasping the shaft of the spear with one hand and tracing its length, from the opening in the stone from which it protruded and up for as far as he could reach. All that his fingers encountered was smooth, cold metal. The spear itself, when fully extended, was over two meters in length, and the star emblem at its end was well beyond his reach. Giving up his exploration for now, he let his hand drop back to his side.

He closed his eyes again, waiting a few moments for his other senses to adjust and compensate for the lack of vision. He could feel the dank air against his skin; he could smell the musty, stale odor of age and rot all around him; and he could hear…he paused, listening more intently, and levered himself up onto his elbows. Breathing! Through the darkness, the slow, rhythmic rasp of breathing floated to his ears, coming from somewhere in front and to the right of him.

Slowly, carefully, he sat up, and for a moment, he forgot about the sound, as he felt his muscles effortlessly respond to the command of his brain, and his body move once again with long-forgotten grace and power. The Hom Dai curse, in addition to its terrifyingly powerful gift of immortality and the almost limitless mental and physical abilities it gave its bearer, had allowed his body to be endlessly regenerated. This regeneration was bought at a terrible price—a human price—and resulted in living tissue flowing smoothly and perfectly over a withered, rotten core. The immortality of the Hom Dai was a beautiful mask covering and obscuring a living nightmare. But this time…such was not the case, this time. This regeneration was completely different from the previous two.

With an awed sense of wonder, he moved his hands over his arms, his chest, his face. He was whole, he was restored, and for the first time in countless ages, he felt…human. His heart was beating, his lungs were drawing in breath, blood was coursing hot through his veins, and his mind was whole and sound, not twisted up in the tangles of rage and perverse power of the Hom Dai. He was mortal. Not just mortal in the sense of only having powers and capabilities within the range of normal human beings, for he had experienced that before, in his two previous awakenings, but mortal. _Mortal_. Flesh and blood mortal, life and breath mortal. Human again, after three thousand years.

For a few moments, a curious mixture of emotions coursed through him, as he remembered his just-ended exchange with the great god Amun-Re. Disbelief was the most strongly felt of those emotions, but it was fading rapidly as his eyes and hands and mind assessed and catalogued the changes in his physical and mental state. It was fading into a sort of wary acceptance, a distrustful and cautious hope that was afraid to trust too soon that the nightmare was finally ended, the curse lifted, and his torment within the pit finally at an end. Could it really be that simple? Surrender his immortality and unnatural powers, perform one task for the gods, and then finally be allowed into the lands of the West? He was afraid to hope for too much, but the evidence was mounting that what the god had told him was true.

And that would mean it was also true that he would have a choice in the eventual outcome. Briefly, he considered his already-made decision to complete the task and then surrender to the balm of death. Was there truly nothing worth holding onto in this newly restored life? Images from his past life flashed before him—his childhood, his youth, his years in service to Osiris, and lastly, his ill-fated love affair with Seti's mistress. What was left of that life to go back to? His family and friends were gone now, waiting for him in the afterlife. The temples of ancient Egypt were crumbled to dust, testimony to the relentless passage of years and the death of a once-great culture. And his love for the woman. That too was gone, burned from his heart by the bitter flame of betrayal. In the end, she had not loved him enough. She had not done for him what he had unquestioningly done for her, all those centuries ago. No, his past was gone, wiped from the slates as cleanly as his name had been wiped from history's records when the curse had been invoked, and he became He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.

As for the present, he had no idea where he was, or what year he now existed within. He had a task to complete, but once that was done, what was there for him here? From his last two awakenings, he remembered the outside world, and it was a vastly different place and time than his own. There were the technological marvels, of course, and he briefly remembered the flying machines, and the train, and the automobiles. The thought of learning what had happened in the world, and exploring some of the miracles that the curious and clever hand of humanity had wrought held some appeal for him, but it was an academic appeal only, speaking to his inquisitive mind, not to his pummeled, still-raw heart.

And the people of the present were much the same as the people of his time. There were those who were greedy and grasping, people who would sell their mothers and sisters and daughters if the price were right. Those people existed in any era, and had served his purposes well, when the need arose. There were also those with excessive bravery and courage, those with great heart and humanity, those to whom honor and service were real, concrete things, not just frail, intangible concepts.

Imhotep was suddenly reminded of O'Connell, and his woman, Nefertiri reborn, and his son, who had to have been one of the bravest boys he had ever encountered, in all of his lifetimes. A small smile grew on his lips when he remembered the boy's unwavering courage in the face of what had made grown men go nearly mad with fear. O'Connell and his family. His mortal enemies, in both of his previous awakenings. In the end, it was their simple and selfless love and courage that had defeated the Scorpion King and his minions, and saved them all. For a time, the curse had afforded Imhotep the power to destroy O'Connell and his loved ones—destroy them utterly. He could have done so with a thought, a word. But what had happened when the scales had tipped to the balancing point, when they had been rendered equals, and the only power to be called upon was love, and commitment, and honor? He knew that answer only too well, and the pain was still too raw to dwell much upon.

No, he had had enough of living. He had had more than his share of living, and dying, and living again, and he was tired of it. He was bitterly tired of it. He had no wish to experience any more life, or hope, or pain, or betrayal. He laughed silently, inwardly mocking himself. Three attempts at it were enough for any man. More than enough. Perhaps in the afterlife he could finally experience true peace.

But the recollection of the final moments of his last awakening had brought with them a vague awareness of where he could be, and he began to wonder if it would really be that easy. Could it be that he had been brought back to the very same place where he had last stood, as a more-or-less living being? Could he still be within the Pyramid of Ahm Shere? And given what he remembered of the last moments of that life, the horrendous carnage and destruction taking place all around, what would face him when he tried to make his way _out_ of the pyramid?

A soft moan floated through the darkness, and brought his attention back to the present. He paused, listening intently, and again picked up the sound of shallow breathing. Shifting to the edge of the slab of stone, he braced himself on his hands and lowered his feet to the ground. The world spun dizzyingly, sickeningly, for a moment when he first stood up, and he waited for a few moments while his body adjusted to standing upright, and his equilibrium was soon restored. He turned in the direction of the breathing, and carefully picked his way through the debris and fallen rock, making his way slowly but resolutely towards the source of that sound.

And then he found her. First, his foot fell upon a soft mound of fabric, and he stopped, not necessarily wanting to harm the person, whoever it might be. From the shallowness of the breathing, and the moan, he assumed that they were hurt in some way, and he had no reason or desire to injure them further. Reaching down with his hands, blindly seeking in the dark, his fingers fell upon the bare skin of the woman's arm, and he recoiled in shock at the electric surge of recognition that shot through him. Somewhat tentatively, he reached out again, prepared this time, and again the same tingle of energy pierced his skin and traveled straight to his heart.

Perhaps he was fully human, fully mortal, once again, but even mere mortals are possessed of certain abilities. And Imhotep, in his first lifetime, had been a high priest of Osiris, a man of great learning, and power, and discernment. Knowledge of the arcane, the spiritual, and the mystical was part and parcel of his trade, as servant to the lord of the underworld, and Imhotep had been a gifted priest. So the simple act of recognizing an agonizingly familiar aura was child's play for him.

But what was she doing here? Why would she be lying here, not three meters from where he had been brought back? Imhotep thought back over his last moments again, quickly, and he was sure that he remembered the chain of events with clarity. How could he not? They were branded on his heart. He was not wrong. She had turned and fled back down the tunnel, heading for the pyramid's entrance. So finding her here, lying so near to him, could only mean one thing, and he felt a faint stirring of hope blossom somewhere near his heart.

Gently, he reached out again, running his hands over the woman's bare arms, up to her shoulders, and then he rested the palm of his hand against the smooth skin of her cheek. His voice, when he could finally find the words, was nearly choked with emotion, the smooth, musical baritone ragged with grief, and hope, and some other emotion, which he refused to name. The words, when they finally emerged, underscored the whole, heartbreaking history in a single phrase, spoken in the ancient language.

"Anck-su-namun? You came back? You came back for me?"

* * *

Ardeth stood in the stygian darkness of the great hall and released his grip on the chunk of collapsed wall. It was all that had saved him from being swept away by the ferocious wind that had stormed through the pyramid. For now, the wind seemed to have died down, but the light had faded away also, and he was left with no way to navigate in the dark. He stood there, hands stretched out to the sides, wondering if he could manage to feel his way forward and not trip on one of the innumerable chunks of debris or stumble into one of the many cracks and crevices that pitted the floor. He was not willing to leave without Eliana, but his options seemed fairly limited at this point. In truth, he wasn't even sure if he could manage to find his way back to the exit, since the total darkness had managed to disorient him thoroughly. Cursing himself again for his foolhardy move in coming here unprepared, he thought back on what he had done so far, and all the things he could have done differently, if he had simply thought before acting.

He had hurled himself through the opening into Ahm Shere's golden monument, barely an hour after Eliana had entered through the same doorway, and for a moment, he was nearly blinded by the sudden transition from light into dark. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then opened them again, this time able to see a short way into the murky gloom. The light filtered in through the opening, but the passageway stretched off into darkness, and he suddenly realized that he had brought nothing with him to light the way into the pyramid. Cursing his lack of foresight in running off without a flashlight, or lantern, or any form of light, he continued down the corridor. He had simply run off, going on instinct and his gut instead of reason and forethought, and now he was paying the price for letting his emotions get involved in this whole sorry mess. Mentally kicking himself again, he moved on into the gathering darkness. Hopefully, he would find Eliana soon, not too far into this pile of rubble, and she would have a light with her. At any rate, it was too late to turn back. He had to find her, and find her quickly, before her father and the other men got here and unleashed some slumbering, ancient power. Or before she did.

Using touch alone, Ardeth managed to grope his way to the end of the passageway and find the door to the interior. He had taken perhaps two steps into the great hall, and was feeling around with outstretched hands to try to navigate further, when he heard the screech of the wind. It came from behind him, almost as if it had originated from outside, from across the wasteland surrounding the dig, and tore down the exterior corridor, knocking him aside like a rag doll when it stormed through into the great hall.

He fell to the side, grabbing for a handhold on the wall, and holding on for all he was worth as the tempest stormed around him, buffeting his robes, whipping through his long hair, picking up dirt and small stones and flinging them wildly through the air. It was like being caught in a desert sandstorm; all he could do was hang on and try to outlast it.

Suddenly, the wind died, and the calm was somehow more frightening than the raging whirlwind had been. From far off, across the hall, down the stairs and through a tunnel, Ardeth saw a brilliant white light flare into life, and he felt fear, down to the bottom of his soul. There was no light source known to man that would glow that brilliantly, streaming through the cracks and fissures of the ruined pyramid like a newly birthed sun. A light like that was a sign of the gods moving among men, and signaled the release of some enormous, terrible power, and the thought of what it meant curdled the blood in his veins.

He had no time to spare. He _must_ find Eliana and try to repair whatever damage she had inadvertently caused, before it was too late. Running now, navigating by the glow that streamed down the tunnels and lit up most of the great hall, he called out to her as ran down the steps three at a time.

"Eliana! Stop! Whatever you are doing, stop!" But his words were washed away and drowned in the deafening roar of thunder that shook the pyramid to its core. No sooner had the echoing rumble died away, than the wind returned, stronger this time than before. It whipped and roared through the confined space of the hall, and Ardeth was spun around in its wake, groping for a handhold, an anchor to hold him in place while he rode out the storm.

For endless minutes, the wind battered him, and he feared that if it lasted much longer, he would lose his grip and be carried off. Finally, after a seeming eternity, it died to a mere whisper, and then simply faded away. Cautiously, he had scrambled to his feet, and now, here he was, stranded in the unnavigable darkness, for the light had faded along with the dying wind.

He was reluctant to turn, fearing it would disorient him further, so he simply looked around, hoping to see something, anything, even the merest hint of a glow of light or even an area of less dense darkness, which could point the way to the entrance. He resigned himself to going back for a flashlight, for there was no way he would be able to find Eliana without one. It would cost him valuable time, and force him to explain himself to the others, who would surely be up above by now, tinkering with the diamond capstone, but there was no avoiding it. Something had happened here, and he had to find Eliana and get her out, before things got any worse. And that meant he needed a light.

He turned his head to the right, and his eyes, now used to seeing only dark, picked out a faint trace of light coming from that direction. It occurred to him that this was rather strange, since he had come down the stairway to get there, and it seemed that the light should have been coming from above. But this light was at his level, and in the opposite direction from which he thought the entrance was located. Suddenly, he realized that it could well be Eliana with a flashlight that he was seeing, and he turned in that direction, slowly making his way towards the far off glow, in a hurry but unable to hurry, and he fumed in disgust at his helplessness.

And then that light, too, faded away. Ardeth was alone in the dark yet again.

* * *

Eliana moaned again, and screwed her eyes shut tight against the pain that throbbed through her head. It felt like she had split her skull wide open. For the moment, the pain was centered near her left temple, but the rest of her didn't feel much better. She felt like she had been tossed around in a hurricane, and she wouldn't be surprised if she was one solid black and blue bruise when she finally got out of there. And she meant to get out of the pyramid as soon as she found the damn flashlight.

So, the Scepter of Osiris, if that's really what it was, was a hoax. It hadn't worked. _Had she really expected it to?_ Here she was, lying in the dark, flashlight gone, head bruised and bleeding. So much for flights of fancy. There was a lesson to be learned in that, somewhere, but for now she just wanted to get out. She'd think about what had and hadn't happened later, when she was back at the camp, safe and sound. Blinding flashes of light? Rushing winds? A lot of what had happened after she had placed the spear into its receptacle on the altar was a blur, mixed up and confused after the blow to her skull, but she definitely remembered the light flashing from the spear, and the wind. How could she forget the wind? And she remembered the vision she'd had—thought she'd had—prior to any of those things.

The rational, logical Eliana sensed a weakness and moved in quickly, categorizing and explaining away most of the phenomenon. The vividness of the vision, the life-like quality to it, could be attributed to its being a waking dream of some sort, brought on by the ongoing stress of the dig itself and Eric's illness. Who knew what kind of tricks the mind could play when it was stretched to the breaking point? The light? Well, it could have been a reflection of the flashlight's beam off the spear, magnified and focused by the planes and angles of the star on top. The wind? That was hardest to explain, but given a few moments, her adept brain came up with a reasonable answer, after all.

There was a phenomenon in some caves—and the underground pyramid could be considered a cave of sorts—where the wind rushed in and out in response to changing air pressure on the inside and outside. Eliana remembered one cave she'd visited, during her teen years, in the Black Hills of South Dakota—Wind Cave, she thought it was called—where the constant changes in pressure not only created a powerful wind that streamed into and out of the cave at times, but also caused a high-pitched scream as the blast of air exited the cave's mouth. Certainly some sort of phenomenon like that could be at work here. As for it all having happened simultaneously, well, that was obviously a very strange coincidence.

Now that she'd tied the whole series of events up into a nice, tidy package, Eliana sighed. There was no reason for her to feel depressed, except for the fact that she was trapped underground in a partially collapsed pyramid without a light. There was no reason for her to feel alone, except for the fact that no one in the entire camp knew where she was or how long she'd been gone. There was no reason for her to feel guilty, except for… Well, she didn't know why she felt guilty. She felt desolate, horribly alone, and an unremitting sense of guilt was hovering like thick fog all around her, shrouding her soul. None of any of it made sense, and she couldn't think of it now, or she'd go crazy. Now, she had to get out of here.

Not moving too quickly, because any sudden motion sent a sharp blast of pain shooting through her head, Eliana groped around on the floor for the flashlight with her free hand. She was still clutching the robe with the other, and for some reason, she still couldn't bear to let go of it, irrational or not. So one hand would have to do. She knew that the flashlight had fallen near her, and it was only a matter of time before she found it. Then, she could only hope that it had been the switch that was hit in the fall, and that the light still worked. If not, she didn't know what she would do, because she certainly couldn't manage to get out of here with no light. The memory of picking her way across the chasm on that toppled pillar was still fresh in her mind, and she had no desire to repeat the experience in the pitch dark that surrounded her now.

After sweeping across the floor several times, she was finally rewarded when her fingertips touched the cool plastic barrel of the light. Reaching, stretching, she gathered it up and was about to test the switch, when she heard the movement. The sound of soft footsteps coming towards her. The sound of breath being inhaled and exhaled. She realized she was not alone in here, in the dark, and panic overwhelmed her. Someone, something, was inexorably making its way towards her, and she was terrified, frozen into place, trying to breathe only the shallowest of breaths, to somehow pretend she wasn't there. _Who was there?_ A thought, a possibility, flashed through her mind, causing a funny little leap in her heart, but she immediately squashed it. No, she was not going there, she wouldn't even consider the idea.

Suddenly, she felt the person, the thing, whatever it was, step onto the folds of the robe she cradled in the crook of her arm, and she was trapped. Whatever was there was too close for her to get away, and she doubted that she could move fast enough anyway, even if the distance had been greater. The only course of action left open to her was to play opossum and remain as still as possible. She held her breath, waiting for what would come next, gripping the flashlight in her hand, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary.

And then he touched her. She felt the brush of fingers over her bare forearm, and at the touch, ripples of awareness swept through her, lighting fires along every nerve path in her body. It was like touching a live electric current, or being struck by lightning. The shock, the jolt of the connection, was so strong that she thought surely her skin must have been scorched by it. She had felt something like this—a blinding flash of knowing that transcended mere visual identification—when she'd met Ardeth. That moment of pure, primal recognition, though, was as different to this one as the moon was to the sun. She knew this man, and she knew him well, and her soul had been forever changed by the knowing.

He must have felt something as well, for at the first brush of skin against skin, he jumped back, and she could hear his breath catch, and then start up again, harsher, quicker than before. He seemed just as disturbed by the contact as she. But then, seconds later, his hands were back, unbelievably gentle this time, closing over her wrists, sliding up to her elbows, up towards her shoulders, and then one of his warm, strong hands was cupping the curve of her face.

For one last time, Eliana's logical brain screamed at her to get up and get out of there. But the tiny, puny argument it made—that she had no idea who he was, or how he had gotten here, or why he was touching her in such a familiar and intimate way, was swept away utterly by the sheer, joyous welcome that shouted from her soul and echoed through her mind. Her body, too, welcomed his touch, reacting to the feel of his hands on her skin like wax in a burning candle, melting away into a pool of liquid heat, her insides growing warm and heavy, and constricting in a not unpleasant spasm of sensation.

She closed her eyes, and rubbed her cheek against his palm, and then she heard his voice, and the words he spoke, and the lilting, melodic cadence of the ancient tongue washed over her. The words themselves made no sense, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. All of her senses were focused on the touch of the hand cradling her cheek, the warm, musky scent of the man kneeling in front of her, and the sound of his rich, beautiful voice. She felt cradled in a cocoon of pure sensation, pure emotion, and she never wanted the feeling to end.

Had the Scepter worked, then, in the end? Had she somehow managed to unleash its dark magic and bring the priest back to her from whatever hell had imprisoned him? Or was she simply dreaming again? She thought she was awake, but perhaps not. Perhaps the blow to her skull had been more severe than she'd thought. Either way, he was here with her, and right now, that was all that mattered.

She reached out, loosening her grip on the robe, and felt it slide out of her hand and to the floor, forgotten. Her palm touched warm flesh, sliding over the smooth muscles of his shoulder, down his bare arm, skimming over his ribcage to his chest, and ending up over his heart. She felt him draw in a breath as she touched him, and his hand fell away from her face. Seconds later, his grip on her shoulders tightened, and he was pulling her up from the floor and into his arms, crushing her to him in a fierce embrace that stole her breath away. She welcomed the irresistible strength of his arms around her, and turned her head so that her lips pressed lightly against the bare, smooth skin of his chest, savoring the warmth and intimacy of the contact.

Still murmuring to her in the old language, he gently put his fingers beneath her chin, and tilted her face up to his. She paid no attention to what he was saying at all, the melodic cadence of the words simply becoming a background symphony to the pounding of her heart and the rushing of her blood. The flow of words died to a whisper, she felt his warm breath on her lips, and then he kissed her.

When their lips touched, softly at first, gently, Eliana thought that the world had stopped turning. Or maybe it had begun to spin faster. Whatever the case, her own personal world had been knocked off its axis, and was rotating in some crazy orbit, blindly spinning around this man, this moment, the feel of his lips on hers. In this instant of time, he was the center of her universe, and nothing else mattered. Her lips parted under his, and the kiss grew deeper, more demanding, filled with a passion and an aching desperation that she felt to the depths of her soul. The kiss itself was purely erotic, druggingly sensual, his lips and tongue moving over hers in seductive perfection; but it was the feeling of absolute rightness of being in his arms, the feeling that her soul had finally found its missing half that carried the real power. The darkness of the pyramid's interior wrapped around them like a warm, soft blanket, shielding them from reality, surrounding them in a hazy twilight world of feeling and sensation, and she surrendered herself utterly to the kiss, and to the man. There was nothing else, no one else.

She lifted her arms around his neck, to hold him more closely to her, and as she did so, the flashlight that she still gripped fell away, hitting the stone floor with a resounding _thud_, and the fickle switch turned on, flooding the small space around them with light. Startled, they separated, the kiss ending abruptly, both of them pulling back from each other, blinking at the sudden brightness. Senses still reeling from the kiss, Eliana raised her hand to her lips, and her eyes to his, and in them she saw…

Confusion. Puzzlement. A perplexed bewilderment that gave way first to uncertainty, then to doubt, then to shock, and then finally, slowly, to a careful neutrality of expression that was frightening in the degree of control it bespoke.

Imhotep leaned back, his hands on his knees, cautiously putting a distance between them, not sure what to believe, yet, or what to think, or what to hope. He had been so sure, so positive of who she was, and from her response to his touch, she had known him as well. But now, in the light, he could see that she looked nothing like Anck-su-namun, nothing like the woman she had been—in either her first life, or her reincarnation as Meela. But what did that mean? He had touched her; he had recognized her aura, her soul's signature. She was Anck-su-namun. Surely he had not become that desperate, that deranged, as to imagine it all…

Carefully, he reached out and lifted her hand in his, and the tingle of awareness surged through him again. No, the aura was the same, he had not been wrong. He stared at her hand, turning it over in his, eyes taking in the light skin, the short, neatly trimmed nails, the calluses on the palms. These were not Anck-su-namun's hands. Anck-su-namun's hands had been long, elegant, with slim, graceful fingers and smooth, olive skin. These were the hands of a stranger. Lifting his head again, he met her eyes.

"Who are you? You are not Anck-su-namun. _Who are you_?" Then, as an unwelcome fragment of possibility came crawling into his mind, he asked another question, perhaps more pertinent than the first. "What year is this?"

Eliana gaped at him. All of the warm, languorous feelings that still lingered from the kiss drained out of her in a nauseating rush and left her with a sick, empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. She stared at him, taking in the bronze, bare skin, the handsome, arrogant features, the aura of power and command that he wore so effortlessly. Without a doubt, this was the priest from her dreams. Without a doubt, they had just shared a mind-numbing kiss. Without a doubt.

Suddenly, the colossal impossibility of the whole bizarre situation came crashing down around her, and she was filled with doubt, and uncertainty, and fear. Good God, what had she done? What had happened? What was still happening? There were two possibilities—either she was awake, or she was dreaming.

Panicking, Eliana grabbed the flashlight and shone it around the room. The familiar ruins of the temple sanctuary surrounded her. The black robe lay by her side on the floor. She touched her head, and gingerly felt the painful lump on her left temple. Were you supposed to dream in this kind of detail? Were you supposed to be able to touch, smell, see and hear with this kind of vividness in a dream? _And don't forget taste_, she added, with a tinge of self-mockery. The taste of his mouth still lingered on hers, a vivid reminder of what had just passed between them.

_No_, Eliana thought, answering her own question, _dreams are not this real, this vivid_. The entire situation was feeling not very dream-like, and that left her with only three frightening possibilities. Either she had hit her head extremely hard and done some real damage that was bringing on this life-like hallucination, or she had gone completely mad and was making up some alternate reality, or she had worked some sort of ancient Egyptian hocus-pocus with a banged-up, dented artifact, and the man from her dreams had walked straight out of her subconscious and was at this very moment sitting right in front of her. Yelling at her in some strange language.

No, not yelling. Asking her something. She could tell that much from the inflection alone. But what? She assumed that the language was ancient Egyptian—which, in theory, she knew—but her confused mind wouldn't cooperate and make sense of the words and the phrasing. He spoke too quickly, and the sound of the words of a dead language actually being spoken was vastly different than reading them on paper. It was easy to translate his words in her dreams—effortless, even. The subconscious had amazing abilities. But doing so in reality was something else entirely. And why was she even worried about translating his words? Either one of the first two possibilities—that she was either severely injured or quite mad—were eminently more believable, and acceptable, than the third. But they didn't feel quite as accurate.

Yanking her hand out of his and holding both of her palms out towards him, as if warding him off, she scooted backwards, shaking her head in confusion and dismay as she increased the space between them. He watched her as she backed off, and he was silent now, that blank, inscrutable look still on his face. Imhotep could see that the woman was frightened, not necessarily of him, specifically, but of something. And she was injured. A thin trail of dried blood snaked down from the small gash on her temple, and he could see the bruised welt there. With an emotional self-control that had been honed to a steely, absolute resolve in the timeless crucible of the Hom Dai, he forced his useless, pointless emotions away, relegating them to the ashes, where they belonged. Finally, he spoke again, deliberately softening his tone, making it less accusatory, less emotionally charged, but no less relentless.

"Who are you? We are in the Pyramid of Ahm Shere, are we not? What are you doing here?" And then, softer still, "What year is it?"

The language was the same, but he was speaking more slowly, now, and Eliana could almost make sense of it. Almost, but not quite. Shaking her head, she reflexively answered in English. "I'm sorry; I don't understand what you're saying." _I don't understand what he's saying, I don't understand what's happening, I don't understand any of it. God, what is going on here?_ She tried to calm herself, but the panicked thoughts kept racing through her mind, over and over. This simply couldn't be happening. It was impossible—all of it was utterly impossible.

Imhotep grimaced. Not again! Once more, the harsh, foreign sound of the English language accosted his ears. Was it possible that the language of Egypt, the greatest civilization on earth, had been so completely replaced by this unmelodic, guttural tongue? There could be no other explanation. The only people he had been capable of communicating with in the old tongue during his last two risings had been the academics, the scholars, those who specialized in the study of the great kingdom and its language. Evelyn Carnahan. The museum curator. And, of course, Anck-su-namun. Fiercely, he pushed the thought of Anck-su-namun from his mind. He would not, could not think of her. Not now. Scowling, he remembered that he had also managed to speak in his language to the boy, O'Connell's son, but that was due to the telepathic sleight-of-hand afforded him by the Hom Dai, and the openness of the child's mind. That option was no longer at his disposal. He considered again. Maybe…and a memory clicked into place.

He switched to Hebrew, the language of the slaves. "Is this language familiar to you?"

Imhotep saw comprehension dawn in Eliana's eyes, and he knew that she had heard him, and understood, although the fear was still in her eyes. How the language of the Hebrew slaves had managed to survive the millennia, while the language of the great Egyptian culture had apparently died out, he couldn't imagine. But at least the language barrier could be breached.

"I can see that you understand. Answer me, then. Who are you, and what is this place? Why are you here? _What year is it?_"

"Who am _I_?" The perfectly accented Hebrew flowed smoothly off her tongue, her nimble linguist's brain easily making the mental translation, now that she was working with a language she knew well. And with the switch to the familiar Hebrew, all of Eliana's mental defense mechanisms slammed into place, going into a panic-driven lock-down mode. All of the openness to possibility and wonder that she had embraced in the moments before she'd used the Scepter were gone, banished by the practical, twenty-first century mind that she had determinedly sculpted for herself over the course of her life, in reaction to her childhood trauma. And that mind took stock of this situation, and totally rejected it. This man couldn't be who he seemed to be—he simply couldn't. That left her with the unappetizing, but very real, possibility that she had just been passionately kissing a complete stranger, and a potentially dangerous one, at that.

"I think that the better question is: Who are _you_?" Her words were clipped, indignant. "And 'this place' happens to be the middle of my father's dig. Ahm Shere. We're in the pyramid. But you must have known that. How else would you have gotten here? And what do you want? And what on earth do you mean, what year is it? It's 2001."

Imhotep closed his eyes tightly when he heard the year, knowing that he now had his answer. It explained so much. Why her mind reacted to him as a stranger, while at the same time her body responded to his like a lover. Why he recognized her as Anck-su-namun, and yet she so obviously wasn't. Not always did reincarnation result in identical features and appearances, as it had in her rebirth as Meela. Apparently, that was the case this time.

He stared into her eyes for a long, timeless moment, and he knew. She may have been Anck-su-namun, and Meela, and countless others before that, but she was now someone else entirely. And even though at some deep, primal level her soul still knew his, the rational, conscious part of her mind had no idea who he was, or who she had been. Her _ka_ was identical, unchanging, but the _ba_, the essence of Anck-su-namun, the spirit that he had finally managed to bring back and join with her _ka_ in the body of Meela, was gone once again, lost somewhere in the tangled paths of the underworld. He told himself not to care, for through this revelation, he had another answer, as well. His rash, futile hope that she had, in the end, returned to help him withered and died, and was gone. He had been right in the first place. She had left him to die, hanging on that ledge in the crumbling pyramid.

So be it. Imhotep was nothing if not a survivor. He had survived before; he would survive now. He would complete the task that Amun-Re had set before him, and then he would enter the afterlife. It would be over, then, for good, and perhaps his soul could find peace.

Imhotep stood, towering over her, and Eliana shrunk back. He was tall, taller even than she had imagined, and for the first time she noticed what he was wearing, and mental warning bells went off again. From the top of his clean-shaven head to the bottoms of his bare feet, he was the image of an Egyptian priest, and a high-ranking priest at that. The scarab pectoral resting on his chest, the kilted loincloth fastened around his waist, the leather gauntlets, the braided cords tied around his biceps… All added to the picture, and the picture was a familiar and poignant one to Eliana. He was the living epitome of the man she'd dreamed of, seen in her vision. Every detail, each small nuance of looks or mannerism was captured in perfect detail in this flesh-and-blood man standing before her. _How much more proof do you need_, she wondered silently. _How much more is necessary before you finally accept what has happened?_

He watched as the woman cringed away from him, and he was suddenly, fiercely angry. Angry with the gods, for putting him in this untenable situation; angry with her, for what she had done to him in her past life, and for looking at him now with such fear and loathing, as though he were some sort of vermin; and angry with himself—first, for being such a fool those three thousand years ago; and now, for allowing himself the luxury of anger. No more. Foolish sentiment was the real curse—it was the first link in this endless chain of suffering, and he would no longer allow it to exist within himself. Again, he clamped down on his emotions, and focused instead on what he must do to answer the god's demand.

He now knew where he was, and what year it was, but nothing more. If he were to have any hope in accomplishing this task, he would need more than that. And she was going to have to give him the answers he required. It was the least she owed him, he thought, grimly. Going over in his mind what she had already told him, he pondered over the unfamiliar term she had used to describe Ahm Shere.

"You said this was your father's 'dig.' What is a dig?"

"A dig?" The sudden change in his demeanor, and the deliberate, controlled calmness with which he asked the question, threw her. She understood him perfectly, but her expression was puzzled, confused, and she stuttered over her response. "A dig is, you know, an archaeological site…" She frowned, wondering if she was somehow using an incorrect word. "Scientists digging in the earth to uncover artifacts from ancient civilizations?"

"Digging in the earth? Why would these people be digging for anything in the Oasis of Ahm Shere?" His tone was disbelieving, scoffing. "There is nothing below it but the sands of the desert from which it sprung."

"You've got that a little backwards, haven't you?" Eliana looked up at him in true bewilderment. "The desert's on _top_. Ahm Shere is buried beneath it. We're digging it up."

Suddenly, the last minutes of his life, and Ahm Shere's terrible implosion became clear to him. With the Scorpion King's defeat, his kingdom had gone with him, back to the desert, erased from the face of the earth. "Ahm Shere is buried beneath the sand? The Oasis is gone?"

Eliana nodded, and then added, "Well, it's gone until my father replaces the diamond capstone. There seems to be some evidence that it is the key to restoring the Oasis." She kicked herself mentally. _Now why did I tell him that? What we do at the site is none of his business, no matter who he is._

At her words, Imhotep felt a chill. They would bring back the Oasis of Ahm Shere? After the gods had seen fit to bury it once more? Could this be what would unleash the plague that Amun-Re had foretold?

"They have not yet done this thing? They have not replaced the diamond?" His words reflected a deep concern, regardless of his determination to remain aloof, distant from the situation.

Eliana stared at him, surprised and taken aback by his anxiety. Why should he care about the diamond, or about Ahm Shere? Her answer, when it came, was slow, measured. "The diamond is not here. It is in a museum in London. It is being flown here, and then it will be replaced. As far as I know, it hasn't arrived yet."

The relief in his eyes was obvious. "When will it arrive?"

"I have no idea. The man who's bringing it could be here at any time. What difference does it make?"

Imhotep had no desire to explain himself, especially to her, and so he simply ignored the question. If the diamond wasn't here yet, he still had time. Time to find out what he could about this excavation, time to learn more about what they had already discovered, time to formulate a plan. Time, even a little, was all he needed. And time, of course, was the one thing fate was determined to take from him.

* * *

The trek from the camp to the dig was not a long one, and the four men made it quickly, although they walked at a normal pace. John Bernstein led the way, flanked by Akil Hamid and Charles Harvey. As they walked, Hamid explained what they had uncovered so far, and what they still hoped to find, and in his own quiet way, reinforced Bernstein's more succinct and less tactfully stated opinion on the importance of the Carnahan diamond. Robert Price followed behind, content to simply listen and observe, his diplomat's eyes and ears missing nothing in the body language or verbal nuances of the men.

Charles, who was still suffering from a bruised and smarting ego thanks to his week-old phone conversation with Bernstein, said little, simply nodding and occasionally emitting a noncommittal one word response to Hamid's monologue. Bernstein, on the other hand, wasn't paying any attention to the conversation at all. Now that he was actually on his way to doing something constructive, something exciting, all his attention was focused there. Thoughts of other people's egos, his daughter's whereabouts, and even Eric's illness faded into background noise. Ahead, a sleeping Ahm Shere waited for them, patiently resting beneath the sands, its gleaming, golden beauty only partially uncovered. All that was needed was them, and the key they carried with them, to awaken it from its slumber. Or so they hoped.

The little group finally reached the dig, and Akil Hamid played the tour guide, pointing out where they had found the Pygmy skeleton and the many spots they had begun to dig in but had then given up on. Finally, he pointed towards the central pit, and the pièce de résistance, the pyramid of Ahm Shere. Even Charles, confirmed cynic and desktop archaeologist that he was, couldn't stifle the gasp of appreciation when he first saw the sunlight winking off the gleaming, sloped sides. Even buried almost up to its tip in sand, the structure was still beautiful, and the small portion of it that they had cleared simply emphasized the teasing promise of what remained hidden below.

Cautioning them to be careful and watch their step, Bernstein led the way down the rickety ladder that leaned against the side of the pit, offering access to the pyramid. Once he was down, and the case containing the diamond was safely resting on the ground, he waited for the less sure-footed Charles to slowly pick his way down the ladder. Robert Price followed, and Hamid picked up the rear. Finally, the little group was assembled on the floor of the pit, and Bernstein retrieved the case, waving to the others to follow him. He stopped at the base of the pyramid, and gently laid the case on its side. Slowly, almost reverently, he opened it, and Hamid and Robert gasped when they saw what it contained. Hamid, of course, had seen the diamond before, but always in a carefully maintained museum environment, never out in the open, brilliant light of the desert, and the magnificent glare from the many faceted gem momentarily blinded him. Robert had never seen it at all, and he was simply struck dumb by the sheer size of the thing. Bernstein was silent as well, but more from a sort of awed wonder—the kind of reaction that one usually reserves for moments spent in the presence of a holy artifact. Clearly, to him, the diamond could be considered such an item. Charles, of course, knew perfectly well what was inside the case, and had seen the diamond many times, so the only reaction from him was a sort of disdainful huffing sound.

Another ladder leaned against the side of the pyramid, and, still staring at the huge gem, Bernstein pointed it out, telling the others how he wanted to handle replacing the diamond. "Akil, you go up first, and find a spot near the top that offers a good foothold. Charles and Robert will follow you, and I'll come up last, bringing the diamond. When we're all there, we'll put the thing on top and see what happens."

In his usual agreeable manner, Akil scrambled up the shaky wooden rungs of the ladder, finding a suitable spot at the top, and motioning to Charles and Robert to follow him. Soon, the three of them were perched above, watching as Bernstein carefully removed the diamond from the case, wrapped it gently in his coat, and carefully made his way up to them.

The very tip of the pyramid was flat, as they had discovered before, and contained the strange circle of glyphs that Eliana had translated. Now, Hamid produced a small brush from his coat pocket, and swiped it over the surface several times, removing most of the dirt and grime that had settled there. He looked expectantly at Bernstein.

"John, are you ready? I assume you would like to do the honors?" This last was said with a hint of humor, since Hamid knew full well that Bernstein would likely kill anyone who tried to usurp his role in placing the diamond on the pyramid's tip. It was his rightful role, after all—this was his dig, his pyramid, and his little magical experiment. Smiling at Bernstein's glare, Hamid waved him forward. "Come, come, John—I was simply teasing you. Please. Set the capstone into place."

Leaning his hip against the sloped side, Bernstein carefully unfolded his coat from around the diamond, exposing it to the clear sunlight of Northeast Africa. Its glare was brilliant, blinding, glorious, as though it was a small sun that had come down from the heavens to grace them, for a moment, with its unmatched beauty. They had to shield their eyes from the sheer radiance, and still it dazzled them, its light shining out like a beacon.

Bernstein looked at each of the men in turn, measuring their readiness for the undertaking. "Are we ready, then?" he asked, wanting to make sure they were prepared for whatever was to come. "Akil has filled you in on what the inscription said, is that correct?" At their nods, he went on. "We don't know what, if anything, will happen when I put this thing in place, but we have to be ready for anything. At worst, nothing will happen. At best, Ahm Shere will be reborn." He repeated his first question.

"Are you all ready?" One by one, they nodded. "All right, then, boys, here we go!"

With a grunt, Bernstein heaved the heavy diamond up and into place on top of the pyramid, where it rested, slightly off-kilter, twisted sideways, not resting properly on the flat top. With a sharp pull, he levered it into position, squaring it up against the sides of the structure itself. It fit perfectly, sliding nearly effortlessly into place, and the alignment was straight and true, as if it had indeed been made to fit. With a small cry of triumph, he crowed to the others, "See there? Look at that, then! No question but that it was made to fit!" Rubbing his hands together in glee, he radiated sheer jubilation and excitement, looking into the faces of the other men, expecting to see the same emotions reflected in theirs. What he found was nothing of the sort. He looked at them again, then back at the diamond capstone, and then he scowled.

"What is the matter with you people? Look there—it fits!" He pointed to the diamond, which twinkled brightly back at him.

"Um, John," Charles cleared his throat. "I hate to be the one to tell you this," and his slightly superior tone gave lie to that statement. "But I must say, old man, that nothing seems to be happening…"

Bernstein's gaze snapped to Charles. "Are you blind, man? The thing fits on there perfectly! Like it was made for it! We just need to give it a bit of time…"

Charles voice was mocking. "Ah—the recipe for restoring lost oases calls for a specified amount of time, then? What amount of time would that involve, John? An hour? A day? A year, perhaps? A few millennia?" He snorted, trying to hold back his laughter.

"You ignorant fool, can't you see that this diamond is obviously the capstone?" Bernstein was angry now, his raised voice issuing a clear warning to Charles. "Have you buried yourself in paperwork for so long that you are completely oblivious to the finer points of field archaeology? Or are you just stupid?"

An angry retort was just forming on Charles' tongue, when Hamid's hand on his arm silenced him. Turning to the Egyptian, fury in his eyes, he saw that Hamid was quietly pointing upwards, towards the sky. His gaze following the gesture, Charles froze, open-mouthed, and the rebuttal he had been about to make to Bernstein's insult died in his throat.

"Gentlemen, I suggest that you look to the sky," Hamid's voice was hushed, reverent, as he addressed the men. He continued to point upwards. "It seems that something is happening, indeed."

As one, the men turned their faces towards the sky over them, and as one, they gaped. Storms in the desert were rare, but they happened, and no one would have thought the presence of a few clouds over this patch of southeastern Sudan to be that unusual. But this was different.

The sky above them, which had only moments ago been clear blue and cloudless for as far as the eye could see, was now boiling with a thick, ominous cloud cover. The clouds had come from nowhere, and from everywhere, billowing in from all directions into a thick, writhing morass of condensed moisture and air that circled, funnel like, directly overhead. The circling thunderheads were slate gray tinged with black, holding all the promise of nature's fury and magnificence. Within them, thunder rumbled threateningly, and streaks of lightning arched through them, painting them from within in shades of pinkish orange gold. The wind, which moments before had been a mild desert breeze, was gathering strength, and gusted strongly against them.

Bernstein looked at Hamid, his usually robust manner strangely subdued. "When did this blow in?"

Hamid's voice held the same tone of fearful awe. "They started building the moment you wrested the capstone into place."

Just then, lightning streaked down from the clouds, hitting the ground a half-mile away from them, and a clap of thunder split the air in a deafening barrage of sound. From the direction of the lightning strike, the smell of ozone drifted to them and lingered in the air. Seconds later, another lightning strike rent the air, followed by a third, and a fourth, and suddenly, lightning was dancing all around them, coming from all directions, moving closer and closer to what seemed to be the focal point of the storm. The pyramid. And them.

"Get the hell down from here! Now!" Bernstein roared, his voice drowned out by the nearly continuous roll of echoing thunder. "This thing is one big damn lightning rod—get the hell off! Move it!" He flung his coat away, and slid down the ladder to the ground, in a move that would make much younger men envious. He left the diamond in place, not giving it a second thought. Wasting no time, Robert Price followed him down, and Charles awkwardly followed. Only Hamid was left.

Just as the Egyptian was about to turn and go down the ladder, the sky directly above the pyramid boiled even more furiously than before, and the circular movement of the clouds intensified. From above, thunder crashed and roared, and a deathly beautiful, immensely powerful flash of lighting streaked down, hitting the capstone dead center, jarring the entire structure, and knocking Hamid off balance. Arms flailing, legs kicking, he flew backwards, hitting the ground below with a sickening thud.

Bernstein moved to help him, but then stopped, his eye caught and transfixed by the diamond on top of the pyramid. Rather than being shattered by the lightning strike, it glowed more brilliantly than before, its surface nearly transparent, its depths glowing and roiling with an immense power, almost as if it had managed to suck up all of the potency of the lightning and absorb it into itself. It glowed, sun-bright, and suddenly, from all of its facets, in simultaneous splendor, laser-like beams of pure energy burst forth, emanating in all directions, shining as bright as the light of a million stars.

Bernstein dropped to his knees beside Hamid, still staring at the spectacle, and his mouth dropped open in awe. It was like watching the birth of a sun—beautiful, horrible, awesome—and the sheer majesty of the scene left him speechless.

Suddenly, with a mighty quake, the earth moved beneath their feet, and the ground quivered, as though some mighty beast were coming awake deep within the bowels of the earth. Tiny cracks and fissures began to appear in the dirt floor of the desert, fanning and spreading out in a lace-like pattern in all directions. For a moment, the storm subsided, and silence lay all around them, the air thick with an abnormal heaviness. Their breathing rasped into the hushed stillness of the waiting desert, and they were afraid, rooted in place with stark terror.

Then, the earth heaved again, and the tremors began anew. Bernstein pointed wordlessly at the pyramid, and the four men watched as it began to rise, shaking off the covering of a million metric tons of sand and dirt as easily as if it had been air. From the outer edges of the pyramid's rapidly reappearing base, a hint of a green glow began to build, and another flash of lightning struck the diamond capstone.

Within moments, a wave of verdant green swept out from the pyramid, and the lush foliage of a tropical oasis began to thrust up from the arid desert sand. Huge trees burst forth from the ground, their trunks piercing through and climbing for the sky, their canopies blooming and spreading as they raced upwards. The tidal force of life rippled out in concentric circles from the pyramid, which continued to rise in a glorious, petrifying spectacle.

Bernstein gaped for a few more seconds, then picked up Hamid and slung him over his shoulder in a fireman's hold, not bothering to worry about whether or not he was injuring him further. Within a few seconds, they'd all be dead, anyway, if they didn't get the hell out of there right now. He turned to the other two men, and pointed into the rapidly thickening jungle growth in front of them. "Run! Run like hell, and don't look back! Head for the camp!" Not waiting to see if they followed, he plunged into the trees, Hamid bouncing on his shoulders.

Behind them, the pyramid continued to rise, as the Oasis of Ahm Shere effortlessly birthed itself from the womb of the barren desert.

* * *

Sabir, the cook, began preparing the evening meal. As he worked, he hummed tunelessly to himself, refusing to give in to a fit of temper. Everyone had disappeared earlier in the afternoon, leaving him to guess as to when dinner had to be ready. It was nothing he wasn't used to, though, so he tried to pay no attention to the inconvenience. He would simply make the meal, and they could eat it when they returned. If it was hot, that would be wonderful. If it was cold, it was their own fault, for not letting him in on their plans. Either way, he would be finished with his work.

As he stirred the bubbling pot of stew, he muttered to himself, going through a mental checklist of ingredients and spices. Realizing that he had forgotten the salt, he put down the ladle and walked towards the boxes where he kept his supplies. Usually, he had help with meal preparations, but the laborers were too skittish, and made him nervous, and so he had impatiently dismissed them all, shooing them off and telling them not to come back until they could manage to find their missing common sense.

Sabir pawed through the boxes, looking for the elusive spice, when a sudden movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned towards where he thought he had seen the disturbance, and saw that the only box in that corner was the storage crate where Eliana's Pygmy mummy was wrapped up, waiting to be packed and taken away to a museum somewhere. So what was over there? Some desert creature, wandering in to see what it could scavenge from the supplies? With a frown, Sabir turned and picked up the heavy ladle again, intending to scare off whatever interloper had traipsed in, looking for an easy meal. Stealthily, he made his way towards the crate, the ladle held menacingly overhead.

He looked behind the box, and saw nothing. He looked to either side, and saw nothing as well. He had seen no movement since that first flash of motion, and began to wonder if it was only his imagination. Still, he told himself, he should take a look in the crate to make sure that nothing had gotten in there to disturb the artifact.

Tentatively, with a healthy respect for the variety of creatures and insects that make the desert their home, Sabir reached out and removed the light scrap of cloth that covered the tiny skeleton. He quickly looked around in the box. No, there was nothing there. _Ah well_, he told himself. _Better to have checked…_

He laughed to himself, but the laugh was cut short in amazed terror as, with a flurry of tiny bones, the small skeleton suddenly gathered itself up and leaped out of the crate, landing on the edge and looking in an almost panicked manner in all directions. Seeing the horrified cook, the little Pygmy skeleton hissed at him, and made a menacing move forward. Suddenly, though, its attention was caught by something outside the tent, and with a last look and hiss in Sabir's direction, it ran off into the desert, heading in the general direction of the dig. Sabir watched, mouth gaping open in appalled shock, still holding the ladle over his head, as the Pygmy ran off towards the excavation.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, for surely his eyesight must have failed him. The middle-aged cook could have sworn that while it was running off, the skeleton was actually beginning to grow skin—with sinew and flesh forming spontaneously and flowing over the little body. Then, as he continued to watch, even as the unbelievably regenerating skeleton faded off into the distance, his eyes grew even wider, and he let out a terrified yelp of sound, dropped the ladle and ran for cover.

From the direction of the dig, a tidal wave of green was heading straight for the camp, obliterating everything in its path.

* * *

Imhotep looked at Eliana, wondering how best to extract the information he needed. He stubbornly pushed away the nagging pain that even looking at her caused him. His only concern, the only objective left to him now, was to ascertain how to fulfill the god's demand and move on to the afterlife. But he had no idea where to start. Amun-Re had told him of a plague. What plague? Was it somehow tied to the Oasis that these men were foolishly trying to restore to the living world? If so, he must find out quickly, and stop them. He looked away from her, glancing around the temple sanctuary, trying to determine, in the feeble light provided by the flashlight, what secrets could be hiding here, apart from the ones he was already intimately and horribly acquainted with.

His gaze drifted back to the woman, and he opened his mouth to ask her the most obvious question—What had they had already discovered during their explorations of the pyramid? His words, though, were cut short by a deep, grinding rumble that emanated from the depths of the earth beneath Ahm Shere. His gaze locked with Eliana's, and when he saw the panicked look in her eyes, he suddenly knew that he had run out of time. Somehow, fate had managed to once again win a round in this unending Senet game, blocking his move cleanly and with an almost poetic grace, before he could even form a strategy.

Eliana struggled to her feet, dragging the robe with her and grabbing the flashlight. For a few, precious seconds, they stood rooted to the ground, and silence blanketed the air all around them. Then, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Ahm Shere's golden pyramid shuddered, a shaking, heaving quake that traveled from its tip to its foundation. The tremors continued to build in intensity and duration, and finally, with a last, final heave, the pyramid began to rise, resurrecting itself from the desert grave that had held it for almost seventy years.

* * *

Ardeth struggled through the darkness of the debris-littered great hall, trying to make his way towards where he had last seen light, still hoping that the dim glow might have been Eliana with a flashlight. It was impossible to navigate in the black gloom, though, and he was becoming increasingly worried that not only would he not be able to find her, but also that he would be stranded inside until someone else came in with a light. And Allah only knew what would have happened by then. With a muttered curse as his foot struck a fallen pile of stone, he was forced to stop, his searching hands determining that a fallen pillar completely blocked his path forward.

Had he been a lesser man, Ardeth would have simply given up and sat down, waiting until someone came to rescue him. He was a strong man, though, toughened by years spent living in the unforgiving desert and heartened by his Med Jai training, and he was not of a mind to give in. Conceding to fate's whimsy was simply not in his nature, no matter how hopeless the situation seemed. Steeling himself, he traced the line of the pillar with his hands, and slowly made his way around. Hopefully, this little detour would not seriously impair his sense of direction once he'd made his way past the obstacle…

Suddenly, the whole pyramid began to shudder, a series of small quakes wracking the structure from its tip to its foundation. Ardeth stood up, and the ground beneath his feet moved with the first shuddering tremors of Ahm Shere's awakening. For a moment, there was nothing, and he wondered if the structure had simply settled further down into the sand. In the next second, though, he knew that was not the case, for with the next series of rumbling quakes, the floor of the pyramid began to rise.

_They have replaced the capstone_. The thought raced through his mind, and filled him with panic. If they had indeed turned the mystical key that would result in the restoration of Ahm Shere, heaven only knew what other powers they had unwittingly unleashed. He was momentarily paralyzed, caught between his desire to find Eliana and get her to safety and his desire to get back outside to see what kind of chaos had been set free. But there was still the problem of being without a light, and now the situation was suddenly immeasurably worse. Not only was he trapped in the pyramid's inky blackness, but the pyramid had suddenly come alive, and was struggling to free itself from the earth.

And then Ahm Shere itself, in a kindly display of generosity, removed his biggest obstacle. In a wave of renewal that started from its very core and swept inexorably outwards, the pyramid effortlessly restored itself. In a blinding sweep, the tide of regeneration flooded past him, and Ardeth watched as the wall torches blazed into light, and the cracked and damaged walls came together, the lines and fissures growing together and then fading away, the paint of the murals brightening, becoming as vivid and colorful as the day they were completed, scores of centuries ago.

With a grinding roar, the pillar in front of him righted itself, as though an invisible giant's hand had suddenly picked it up and set it into place, and Ardeth jumped back, watching in open-mouthed shock as tons of debris, huge chunks of wall and ceiling, were all lifted effortlessly into place, the cracks and damaged areas left behind healing and fading away as though the stone itself were a living thing, being miraculously restored and rejuvenated by some divine surgeon.

Rocks and chunks of stone flew everywhere, and Ardeth covered his head and face with his arms to avoid being struck. Whatever the aging archaeologists had done up above with the diamond, it seemed to have had the effect they desired, for the pyramid of Ahm Shere was coming back to life in a frenzied fury. _But where was Eliana?_ That she could be trapped in here, stranded in the middle of this chaos of renewal, horrified Ardeth, and his decision was made. He had to find her, and he had to find her now. The diamond be damned, the pyramid be damned, all of Ahm Shere be damned. He would not leave her alone in this nightmare. Whatever damage had been done, he would repair later. If they had somehow managed to raise more than just Ahm Shere, he would deal with it in good time. For now, finding Eliana and getting her out of here was his only concern.

Finally able to see, Ardeth turned towards the interior of the pyramid and ran deeper into the structure, dodging and ducking as chunks of rock sailed over his head, fitting into place in the walls and ceiling like the pieces of some colossal three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Eliana was down there somewhere, and he would find her. Everything else would have to wait.

* * *

"My God, the diamond must have arrived. They must have replaced it…" Eliana's voice as she stated that obvious conclusion was the barest whisper of sound. She stood rooted to the ground, her green eyes wide with shock, her face drained of all color. Around them, Ahm Shere groaned and shook with the pains of its own rebirth. Suddenly, every torch in the temple sanctuary blazed into flame, and the room was awash in light and fire.

There was no more time. If they didn't leave now, Imhotep knew that they stood a good chance of being killed in the paroxysm of renewal that was sweeping through the pyramid. If they could make it outside, it would be possible for them to find safety, even with the dangers he knew lurked everywhere in the jungle oasis. In here, they were sitting targets. He glanced at Eliana, and with a quick, assessing look sized up her capabilities. She was in an obvious panic, and he didn't know if she'd be able to move fast enough or think clearly enough to get out of here on her own. And she would undoubtedly slow him down. On his own, he stood a good chance of making it outside. Should he simply leave her? Abandon her like she had abandoned him? It would certainly be an elegant sort of poetic justice…

For a moment, he let a swift stab of anger towards her, towards the woman she had been, flare within his heart. Yes, it would be fitting retribution, indeed. She had left him alone to face Ahm Shere's death; he could leave her alone to face its rebirth. And yet, something held him back, some part of his heart unable and unwilling to abandon her to her fate. No, he would not leave her here. Whatever this woman had done as Anck-su-namun, or as Meela, no matter how deeply she had betrayed him, he could not, would not, leave her here. Once outside, once she was no longer in danger, then he could leave her, and his conscience would be clear. After all, what was she now, but a stranger to him? A new face, a new body, a new _ba_…the only thing left of Anck-su-namun was the soul, the _ka_, and that part of her was obviously deeply buried in this woman's subconscious. No, they were virtually strangers to each other, and it was just as well, for he didn't think he could ever forgive the betrayal. Now, allowing that they made it safely to the outside, he could walk away and not look back, and do so at least peacefully, if not happily. But if he left her here, trapped in this madness, he would never be free of the guilt.

With a quick lunge, he grabbed Eliana's hand, pulling her forward just as a chunk of rock careened past her, heading for a hole in the ceiling, where it fit itself into place and was absorbed. The forward momentum propelled her into him, and she fell forward, her body pressing up against his, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, sending a quick surge of awareness through her. She looked up into his face, where the cold glitter of his eyes and the hard line of his mouth told her that he was every bit as aware of their proximity. He put his hands on her shoulders, in a move that both steadied her and moved her away from him, and she didn't know whether to be relieved or upset. But a quick glance at the chaos surrounding them convinced her that she could worry about the state of her emotions later, when their survival was ensured.

"We must leave here, and reach the outside," he spoke quickly, urgently. "Once we are in the jungle, we can make our way to safety."

"J-jungle? There's no jungle out there, just miles of desert," The protest died a quick death under the scathing look he gave her.

"There may not have been jungle when you came here," he agreed, "but there will certainly be jungle when we leave this place." Not giving her a chance to argue further, he spun her around and pushed her towards the moat. He clearly intended for them to cross over the chasm via the bridge formed by the downed pillar before it had a chance to right itself. Eliana wasn't sure she liked that idea, but she didn't think they had many other choices, either. She ran towards it, looking quickly back over her shoulder to make sure he was following. And then her gaze fell on the altar. She faltered, and then stopped abruptly, and Imhotep grabbed her arm as he went by, pulling her along with an impatient look.

"Wait!" Eliana pulled her arm from his grasp and turned back, racing up the steps to the altar. She dropped both the robe and the light, and, frantically grabbing the shaft of the Scepter of Osiris with both hands, she yanked it out of the recessed opening that held it. Gathering up the other things, she raced back towards the moat, tossing the spear to the priest as she went by. "Here—take this!"

Had she looked back, she might have been gratified to see the look of shocked amazement on his face as he held the battered talisman in both hands, questions racing through his mind. How had he missed seeing this? And, more importantly, what had she been doing with it in the first place? But as more and more debris flew through the air, he realized that both questions would have to wait. Tearing his eyes away from the weapon, he looked up, to see her already halfway across the pillar. A look that might have been grudging admiration worked its way across his face, and then vanished, to be replaced by one of grim determination as he waited for her to jump off on the other side before making his own way across. He had taken no more than two steps off the makeshift bridge when it suddenly lifted and rose into the air, gliding smoothly into place on the far side of the chasm.

"Which way should I go?" Eliana screamed to him, but her voice was drowned out by the cacophony of sound surrounding them. Shielding her eyes from the flying bits of dirt and debris, she saw him point to the central tunnel. They ran for the tunnel opening, Eliana weaving along in front, trying to avoid the flying rocks, and Imhotep pushing her from behind. When at last they reached the relative calm of the tunnel, Eliana stopped, gasping for air. Roughly, Imhotep grabbed her by the arm and pushed her forward.

"We cannot stop. You cannot rest now. Move!" With a hard shove, he pushed her clear of the tunnel, and into the looming expanse of the great hall. Quickly looking around, Imhotep surveyed the interior of the vast room, running through decades-old memories to help him remember the way out. As he did so, he twisted the shaft of the spear in his hands, sliding the telescoping pieces together, transforming it effortlessly from spear to scepter. Collapsed in on itself in such a manner, the talisman was much easier to handle. He turned to Eliana, a look of grim determination on his face.

"We must cross the entire hall, go up the stairway, and down another passageway. Once there, we will find a tunnel to the outside. We cannot stop. Do you understand?"

Eliana stared at him, and at that moment, she didn't care who or what he was. She trusted him, trusted him implicitly, and if he had told her that they would need to climb up to the top of the pyramid and jump from its peak, she would have done so. There was something about him, some aura of command, of latent power, of unbridled competence and authority, that made her feel that he could do anything, and through him, she could as well. She nodded.

"Yes. I understand." He might have smiled, a small, brief flicker of encouragement, but Eliana wasn't sure, since he turned almost at once and dragged her after him, making for the stairs, and the exit. They sprinted across the hall, dodging this way and that as the remainder of the debris flew by, stopping only when they reached the seal of Anubis at the base of the staircase. There, the priest hesitated, coming to a brief halt as he stared for a moment at the gold and black mosaic. For a second only, he looked unsure, almost as if he were afraid to step on the intricate design. The moment passed, though, and with a quick shake of his head, the uncertainty was gone, and the expression of fierce determination was back. He stepped forward, again pulling her with him, and they crossed the seal without incident. Taking the steps two at a time, they reached the top quickly, and headed for the passageway down to the tunnel.

And at that moment, Ardeth Bay reemerged from the side tunnel leading to the temple sanctuary and saw them. At first, he couldn't believe his eyes, and stopped for a moment, frozen in shock. _No! That was not possible! He had just been down to the temple, and no one was there!_ And then he realized that they could easily have passed each other, with them leaving through one of the other two tunnels as he made his way in via the third. His first reaction was relief, gratitude that Eliana was obviously safe—someone must have realized she was here and sent one of the workers in to get her. _Thank Allah, she was safe!_

"Eliana!" He yelled her name from across the great hall, starting across it at a run, thinking to catch up with them. Keeping his eye on the pair, he raced forward, darting through the flying rocks. Just a few steps more and he would reach the staircase.

At the top of the stairs, Eliana and Imhotep stopped, startled. Who on earth was down there, calling out to them? Imhotep saw him first, and stiffened, his face going rigid with hatred and a cold, icy fury. Even with the distance that separated them, he recognized the distinctive clothing and facial tattooing of a Med Jai, and apart from that, this man was the living, breathing image of another, one that had been the bane of his existence in the past. Ardeth Bay! How had the gods managed this little twist of fate? He stood and watched, eyes filled with loathing, mouth pulled into a grim line, as Bay reached the bottom step.

As Imhotep turned towards him, Ardeth got his first full glimpse of the man with Eliana, and froze, his steps faltering, coming to a halting stop at the bottom of the staircase. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach, his dark skin lost most of its color, and he felt icy with fear. _Could it be?_ But he already knew. Even without the visual clues—the kilted loincloth, the gleaming scarab pectoral, the shaven head and hairless body—he would have recognized The Creature anywhere. He had had the image of the priest burned forever into his consciousness through the rich, vivid history of his Med Jai forebears, passed on in stories and songs told round the campfires during ten thousand nights spent under the starry desert sky.

Stricken, he looked at Eliana, who had finally turned towards him as well. She looked confused, her glance darting between the two men as they simply stood in the hall, watching each other, neither making a move, even though the storm of Ahm Shere's rebirth was building to a climax all around them. They stood there, frozen in time, their gazes locked on each other, scarcely breathing. And then Ardeth broke the silence, his voice a mere whisper, as he gave name to The Creature before him.

"Imhotep."

The priest lifted his chin, and a haughty, arrogant look passed over his handsome, sculpted features. With a mocking little half-smile, he nodded in a defiant salute to the man standing below.

"Med Jai." The words were a curse, spat out through clenched teeth.

"Ardeth?" Eliana looked down at the Med Jai, the man she'd once feared, but had grown to care for and trust, and started towards him. She was stopped by the priest's iron grip on her arm. Glancing back at him, she swatted at his hand, trying to pull away, but his hold was unrelenting. He turned the cold, heartless brown of his gaze on her, and slowly, uncertainly, she stopped trying to pull away. "What's wrong?" The words were a whisper.

Ignoring her question, Imhotep pulled her tightly back against him, his hand going around her waist and resting possessively across her abdomen. Ardeth winced at the gesture of casual ownership, and stared into Eliana's eyes, his own brown gaze beseeching her to trust him once more, no matter how crazy his words would sound.

"Eliana, you must believe me. You cannot trust this man." He paused, uncertain how to continue. "He is no man—he is a Creature…"

Still holding Eliana against him, Imhotep glared at the Med Jai. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a large fragment of crumbled rock begin to move, shifting and rocking as it readied itself to move into place. Given a few more seconds, if the Med Jai were distracted…

"I am no more Creature than you, Med Jai. The curse placed by your forebears has been lifted, by the great god Amun-Re himself. You have no business with me. Now leave us!" As he had expected, and hoped, his words were enough of a distraction to keep the Med Jai from noticing the danger to himself. Suddenly, the huge boulder shifted, levitating effortlessly and flying through the air, making straight for the gaping hole in the fractured stairway, making straight for Ardeth Bay. At the last second, the Med Jai saw the peril he was in, and flung himself to the side. But he was a few moments too late, and the rock glanced off his leg as it wheeled past, knocking him off his feet and to the floor, where he rolled, clutching his leg in agony.

"Ardeth!" Her voice shrill with concern, Eliana tried frantically to pull away from the priest, but he held her with a careless strength and watched as Ardeth writhed on the ground below. Finally, when he was sure the Med Jai could see him, Imhotep pulled Eliana back towards him again, this time swinging her effortlessly up into his arms. He paid no attention to her struggling, simply ignoring her kicking legs, her pounding fists, and her angry demands to be put down. Instead, he smiled again, first at her and then at the wounded man, and the scornful derision in the twisting downturn of his lips managed to transform a simple facial expression into a slap.

With a last, mocking nod, Imhotep turned, still carrying the struggling Eliana in his arms, and headed for the passageway to the outside, leaving the wounded Med Jai to whatever fate, and his god, had in store for him.


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

_Then as men celebrate the coming light, I shall pass into darkness. I shall wander the night stumbling and falling. I shall embrace the great nothing—a shadow so deep it encompasses all, unseen but felt in the hearts of men as the sorrow, the loss, the death. And I shall bless the void for it prepares me, leaves me empty so that light may enter._

_In my weakness the dark shall cover me with the red cloth of death and the hungry leopard shall pass by as if I were less than a shadow. I shall hide even as the gods hide behind the veil of nothingness, listening. Though they hear men call in their troubles, they come not; yet silent, beyond the veil their shining fingers move, weaving the cloth of destinies._

_--Excerpt from "Becoming the Hawk Divine", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

"Put me down! Are you insane? _Put me down!"_ Her fists pounding against the unyielding strength of his chest and shoulders, Eliana screamed at the priest. Her words were useless, though, glancing off him like feathers hitting granite. He didn't even spare her a glance, simply shifting her in his arms to better restrain her flailing arms and legs. She tried again. "_Will you stop?_ I know you can hear me! I know you understand what I'm saying! _Damn it!_ Stop! We can't just leave Ardeth in there—he'll be killed!"

Ahead, Eliana could see that the passageway they were in was growing both broader and taller as they approached the exterior wall of the pyramid and the outside. She could see daylight up ahead, and knew that they were almost out, almost safe. Ardeth, however, was still back in the bowels of the pyramid, trapped amid the hellish chaos of Ahm Shere's rebirth. She glanced up into the stony features of the man who carried her. Why wouldn't he stop? Why had he left Ardeth back there, hurt, wounded? Why, in fact, had he seemed pleased that the other man had been injured in the first place? And how on earth had the two of them known each other? That they knew each other Eliana didn't even question—the animosity sparking between the two of them had been obvious. Obvious and inexplicable. Why would Ardeth know a man who before now had only been a figment of Eliana's subconscious? Why would the priest know a man who had, before her father hired him, been a simple man of the desert? And what had they called each other? _Creature? Med Jai?_

As they stepped out of the dimness of the pyramid and into the bright afternoon light, Eliana shut her eyes. After being inside for so long, the sun's glare was dazzling, blinding. Suddenly, she felt herself falling, as the priest loosened his hold on her and dumped her unceremoniously to the ground. Feet hitting the earth, she staggered for a moment before regaining her balance, and her eyes flew open.

Eliana's jaw dropped, her fury at the priest forgotten for a moment as she took in her surroundings. The desert was gone. Completely, utterly gone. It was as though the hand of god himself had moved over the barren sand, calling forth life and abundance from what had been an endless expanse of nothing. The jungle—a lush, tropical forest—spread out in all directions, as far as she could see—green, fertile, rich with life and vitality. It was an impossible genesis, a mad, unfeasible metamorphosis, yet there it was, laid out before her eyes in a profusion of sound and color, smell and feel. The thick, luxuriant carpet of leaves and grasses cushioned her feet, the odor of tropical plants and flowers wafted to her through the air, and the trees and vines swayed, leaves rustling and sighing in the light breeze that blew over her suddenly clammy skin.

"What…has…happened?" The words came out in a squeak of sound, passing forth through lips that felt frozen in place. Eliana felt numb, the foundations of her carefully planned and plotted life crumbling all around her, as she faced the inconceivable scene arrayed before her.

"The diamond has been replaced. Ahm Shere has been reborn." The priest's tone, as he explained the obvious, was unimpressed and matter-of-fact, as though he witnessed such extraordinary goings-on all the time, and had ceased to be amazed by them.

"But things like this just do not happen. People do not come back from…" She paused, darting a quick glance at him, momentarily at a loss to describe where he had been. Finally, she settled on the simplest way of putting it. "From the dead. People do not come back from the dead. Old relics do not break curses. And jungles _do not_ grow out of the desert in the space of an hour or so."

The priest looked at her then, one eyebrow raised in mocking condescension. "What a narrow world you live in," he observed, then looked away, scanning the jungle growth all around, carefully watching the shadows. Almost…almost as if he expected to see something there, something hiding in the murky shade beneath the forest canopy.

Eliana glared at him. The touch of arrogance that she'd thought so alluring in her dreams was beginning to become irksome. She did not live in a narrow world! The world she lived in was neat and orderly, a place where things made sense and you could count on the laws of science and logic. It was a place where things happened in a proscribed fashion, where you could depend on reason and sanity. It was not a place where you resurrected lovers from past lives, or brought back lost oases, or left friends behind in reappearing pyramids. And that brought her back to…

"Ardeth." Eliana whirled, heading back into the pyramid. She hadn't even made it to the door when she was ruthlessly dragged back and imprisoned within the circle of the priest's arms. He held her while she fought against him, saying nothing, as unmoving and unmovable as a statue carved from stone. Finally, realizing the absolute futility of her struggle, she stopped, growing still and quiet in his arms, bowing her head in mute surrender. Sensing her acquiescence, he loosened his arms and almost gently turned her to face him.

"You cannot go back. It is too dangerous. Even if the Med Jai were worth saving, I could not allow it." His words were spoken quietly, but they were without question a command. He would not allow her to return to the pyramid. Eliana looked up into his eyes, searching them for an answer, a reason, something that would explain why he had abandoned Ardeth, and why he was forcing her to abandon him as well. Why he had seemed pleased to do so. The dark brown gaze was unreadable, inscrutable.

"You don't seem to care that we left a fellow human being—someone who happens to be my friend—back in that madness," Eliana accused. "In fact, you seemed quite happy about it. Happy that he was hurt, happy to abandon him. Happy to make _me_ abandon him." She paused, searching his eyes for some reaction—any reaction—but there was none. The only emotion that marked his features was a merciless indifference. That pitiless apathy finally drove her over the edge. She looked at him in utter disgust. "_What kind of monster are you?_" The cutting censure in her voice hit its target with deadly accuracy, biting deep, and the priest almost visibly winced. For a second, she felt his fingers tighten on her arms, as he struggled to control the surge of anger her words had provoked. When his eyes met hers, she could see the barely leashed fury in his, and for the first time, she was afraid of him. His voice was hard, the words striking her like a blow.

"_I_ am a monster? Your _friend_ is a Med Jai. He would destroy us both, and do so happily. It is his only goal, his only purpose in life. He and his ilk have done so before, and we both have borne the resulting curse for age upon age. _Do you truly not remember?_" Frustration was evident in his voice, along with the rage, and he shook her slightly. "How can the entire history have been wiped so thoroughly from your mind, from your soul?"

She stiffened, a haunted, hunted look passing over her features. His words were making her feel strange, weaving a spell that conjured up feelings and images that made no sense. Feelings of hopeless rage, searing pain, aching loss. Images of blood and death, pain and fear. He held her away from him, searching her face for some sign of comprehension, but finding none. His voice, when he spoke again, was resigned, almost tired. "Are you truly so unaware of what is unfolding here?"

"What is unfolding here is impossible, unbelievable. Nothing that has happened today _can_ happen! Don't _you_ understand _that_?" She almost sobbed the words, pulling herself violently away from him, the stress of the last few hours finally taking its toll on her emotional self control. She began to shake, shivering violently, her skin growing cold and clammy, the last bit of color fading from her face. He looked at her closely, and saw the telltale signs of shock beginning to set in. She needed to lie down and rest, and he needed to find something to wrap around her. His eyes dropped to the bundle of cloth she carried.

"What is that? Is it a blanket of some sort?" Gently, he pried the mound of fabric from her unresisting hands. "Please, give it to me. You must be kept warm…"

"N-no. N-not a b-blanket. It-it's a r-robe. I f-found it i-in the p-pyramid." Her teeth chattered, chopping up the words, making her stutter. As she spoke, he unfolded the garment, and as it fell open, revealing its origin, an unbelieving look of shocked amazement came over him, and he shook his head in astonishment. Not only was it a robe, it was the _very same_ robe he himself had worn into the pyramid some seventy years ago. Dirty now, tattered by the elements and the years, but intact and useable, delivered into his hands by a bizarre turn of fate's wheel. Would he never learn to fathom the limits of fate's ironic sensibilities?

He placed the robe around her shoulders, pulling it shut beneath her chin, and drew her to him once again, holding her against him for support, rubbing her back and upper arms in an effort to warm her. She sagged against him, all the fight gone out of her, and rested her head against the warm strength of his shoulder. There was only silence between them—no words, no anger, no accusations, only the soothing feel of his hands moving over her, bringing her a desperately needed warmth and comfort. For an endless moment, time seemed to slow and almost infinitesimally pause, allowing a brief respite as they stood there, dwarfed by the shadow of Ahm Shere's restored monument. Finally, Eliana's shivering subsided, and she tiredly looked up at him, and pushed herself away. "Thank you."

He said nothing, only looked at her, a somber expression on his face, an indefinable shadow of emotion lurking in the brown depths of his eyes. Finally, he nodded, and moved away from her as well, securing the robe more tightly around her shoulders, brushing a strand of hair back from her face with the fingers of one hand. An inexplicable strand of something, some vague, flimsy bond, stretched between them, fragile and delicate, easily broken, but there, nonetheless. She sighed, stepping back, severing the tie.

"We can't just leave Ardeth here. I won't abandon him." At her words, his gaze hardened, and the momentary peace between them was shattered. He was about to speak, when suddenly, he sensed a flicker of movement behind her, and his gaze shot to the jungle beyond them. A jungle that was inexplicably quieter than it had been only moments before. Quiet, still, filled with an ominous sort of motionlessness. And then, with an abrupt, almost fluid ripple of movement, the tall grasses began to stir, bending and swaying, as something far out in the trees began to come towards them.

Imhotep turned her towards the jungle, pointing to the advancing ripple of movement. "There is no time to argue. We will _not_ go back for him." Seeing that she was about to disagree, he added, bluntly, "And I assure you, he will fare better than we do, if we do not leave this place immediately."

* * *

Slowly, painfully, Ardeth hobbled down the passageway leading out of the pyramid and limped into the late afternoon sunlight. His eyes were filled with a weary, resigned sort of amazement as he took in the sight of the newly grown jungle spreading out in emerald waves all around him. All of the stories, all of the legends scarcely did it justice. Ahm Shere was beautiful, a lush oasis filled with green, growing abundance, scattered with patches of dancing sunlight and spots of cool shadow. It was Eden, returned to the world of men, cradling life to its bosom, yet nurturing death at its heart. 

Ardeth scanned the jungle, wary of the slightest movement, the smallest sign of activity. He was well aware of the dangers hidden under the mask of tranquility and peace that cloaked the tropical paradise. Beneath the unparalleled beauty of the forest canopy, behind the gorgeous façade of verdant green, death stalked in the shadows, waiting with a centuries-old patience to leap out and devour the unsuspecting adventurer.

He looked towards where he thought the camp had been. It had been located over a slight rise, only a quarter kilometer or so away from the dig itself. There was no trace of it that he could see. Near and far, wherever he looked, all that met his eye was unbroken jungle growth. What had been the fate of everyone there? Had the jungle simply grown up all around them, cradling them lovingly within its green embrace? Or had it smashed into them like a tropical storm, mindlessly plowing through and obliterating everything in its path? He had no way of knowing, no way of divining the fate of the many people who had been a part of the expedition. Nor would he know, until he could somehow make his way back to the camp.

He grimaced, looking down at his mangled leg, wondering if he would survive the journey through the oasis. After Eliana and the Creature had left him, he had managed to survive only through sheer luck and the grace of Allah. Nearly fainting from the agony of caused by even the smallest movement, he had dragged himself step by painful step up the stone staircase leading out of the great hall and finally reached the relative safety of the passageway leading to the outside. Once there, he had given himself the luxury of sitting down for a few precious minutes and screaming out his rage, frustration and pain. No amount of raging, though, could assuage the feelings of failure and guilt that he carried within himself. He had failed Eliana, he had failed himself, and he had failed his Med Jai brothers. The others might forgive him, might provide reasonable excuses for his inability to avert this catastrophe, but he would not forgive himself. He had been aware of the dangers here, and he had failed—failed utterly, miserably—to guard against them. And now Ahm Shere was returned to the world of men, bringing with it unknown dangers and plagues; and Eliana was gone, carried off by the Creature that he had been sworn to stop, whatever the cost to himself. Somehow, the Creature had been brought back from the hell he had been consigned to, and Allah only knew what would become of Eliana. And the blame for it all could be laid squarely on Ardeth's own shoulders.

But what good did it do to rage at himself, any more than it did to scream it out into the echoing chambers of the pyramid? Sitting here venting his fury was accomplishing nothing. Less than nothing. Each passing minute created more distance between himself and the Creature he must track and defeat. Briefly, Ardeth had assessed his options, which were all too few. His injury left him vulnerable, too exposed to the crafty wiles of the hunters that he knew lurked in the shadows of the jungle outside. He needed to get back to the camp, somehow, repair the damage that had been done to his leg, and then come back out to track down Eliana and the Creature. Trying to do so now would be no favor to her, or to the Med Jai cause. What he needed now was a cool head and a carefully crafted plan. Running off recklessly and without thought was what had caused this disaster in the first place. Ardeth would not make that mistake again.

From what he had seen before the Creature had carried her off, he knew that Eliana was in no immediate danger, at least not physically, and at least not in the most obvious way. Ardeth knew that the resurrected priest had recognized her immediately, just as he himself had done, for the Creature's hold on her had been one of blatant possession, a raw, stark claiming that was intended as a clear warning to the Med Jai. And it was that recognition, that claiming, that would be the strongest protection, as well as the gravest danger, to Eliana. But for now, Ardeth thought she would be safe. But the clock continued to tick, eating up that precious buffer of safety, and he was getting nowhere.

Quickly, he had assessed the damage to his limb, and bound up his injured leg as best as he could, tearing a strip of cloth from his robe, and tying it tightly above the gash in his thigh. The tourniquet had made his leg go numb, and he knew that he would have to remove it soon, or risk permanent damage, but in the meantime it had managed to staunch the flow of blood to a mere trickle, and the numbness itself was a welcome relief from the pain.

The walk from one end of the tunnel had been slow, agonizingly slow, and each halting step had hammered home just how vulnerable he was. Now he stood here—wounded, weary, with only his Med Jai sword for protection, and a seething green sea between him and whatever was left of the camp. Of Eliana and the Creature, there was no sign, but he hadn't expected to find one. The Creature knew as well as he what lurked in the jungle, and he would have moved through it swiftly. Ardeth had no doubt that the resurrected priest would be able to adequately protect both Eliana and himself. In fact, the jungle and its denizens would be no match for the priest. Grimly, he chuckled. Perhaps Eliana had been more fortunate than he had first thought. She was probably more secure within the Creature's protection right now than she would have been with Ardeth to see to her safety.

With a low groan, Ardeth limped into the trees, his sword drawn and ready. It would have to serve as both a tool for clearing a path through the dense greenery and a weapon of defense against any attack by the jungle's native inhabitants. Whatever meager protection it afforded him would have to do, until he could somehow make his way to the camp. Briefly, he looked back at the massive pyramid, now fully restored, gleaming bright gold in the sun. He would have to use it as a landmark, to keep his bearings, or he could wander for days, lost in the thick mesh of trees and vines. With his course fixed firmly in his mind, he turned back towards the wall of green, and, muttering a prayer to Allah under his breath, walked into the waiting arms of the jungle.

* * *

Bernstein stopped, panting from exertion, sweat staining his shirt and running in rivulets down his forehead. Bending stiffly, for the race through the jungle while carrying Akil Hamid slung over his shoulders had all but exhausted him, he slowly lowered the slight Egyptian to the ground. Just moments ago, the four men had stumbled into a small clearing in the dense growth of rainforest, and had quickly made the decision to stop and rest. Hamid had finally begun to come around, groaning and feebly stirring on Bernstein's shoulders, and they needed to stop to assess the damage he had sustained in his fall and tend to his injuries. 

Bernstein dropped to his knees beside his colleague and friend, closing his eyes and rotating his head to ease out the kinks in his stiff neck. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he drew in deep gulps of the hot, moist tropical air. That the dry, arid environment of the equatorial desert had been replaced within mere minutes by the lush greenery of a tropical rainforest amazed the archaeologist, even though he had told himself over and over again that he was prepared for whatever would result from replacing the pyramid's capstone. Looking back on it all, he realized that there was probably no way for anyone to have been even moderately prepared for the scope and scale of Ahm Shere's dramatic reappearance into the world of the living.

He bent to examine his friend, searching quickly to see if any limbs had been broken or sprained. Feeling nothing, he moved on to Hamid's head. There was a good-sized lump on the back of his skull, which probably accounted for his unconsciousness, but when Bernstein quickly checked his pupils, they seemed reactive and dilating normally. Hamid's pulse, too, was normal, and Bernstein could find no signs of bleeding. They needed to get Hamid back to the camp as soon as possible, so that Callie al Faran could give the poor man a real exam, but in the meantime, Bernstein's inexpert opinion would have to do. And he could find nothing wrong with the Egyptian.

"Come on, man, wake up!" He shook Hamid's shoulders lightly, not sure of what else he could do to try to get the unconscious man to come around. Hamid's only response was a groan, although it was louder than the previous one had been. Bernstein, however, took that as a positive sign, and shook the smaller man's shoulders more energetically. Hamid offered no response.

"I say, John. That was a bit of a fall he took back there. Can't say I blame the poor bloke for not waking up right away." Charles struggled to catch his breath, sagging in utter exhaustion onto a nearby boulder and pulling his neatly folded but completely filthy handkerchief from his coat pocket. In his usual overly fastidious manner, he used it to mop up the sweat that was streaming down his face, not even noticing that all he accomplished was to smear the dirt more thoroughly.  
Bernstein shot him a dirty look, and then ignored him, looking back to Hamid.

Robert Price had been the last to enter the glade, and was standing near the edge of the forest, calming looking back from where they had come. There was no discernable path, just crushed and broken plants to mark their passage. His gaze wandered over the trees, up into the canopy, back into the dense ground cover. He looked perplexed, as though something was bothering him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

"There's something odd about this…" he started to say, only to be cut short by a snort from Charles.

"Odd? That's the biggest understatement I've ever heard," the British man scoffed. "The whole place is right out of the Twilight Zone. Good God, man, it didn't even _exist_ before an hour ago! _Odd!_" Charles snickered, still wiping uselessly with his handkerchief. Robert threw a caustic look at him, then resumed his scrutiny of the forest.

"There is something not right about this forest. There is something missing…" his words trailed off.

"What would that be?" Bernstein asked. "You've got trees, grass, plants…"

Just then, Hamid moaned again, and this time, lifted his hand to his head, rubbing at the injured spot. Bernstein immediately forgot about Price's comment, and moved to help Hamid, who was trying to lever himself up onto his elbows, struggling to rise. Gently, he helped him to sit up.

"Careful, there, friend. That was quite a fall." He put his arm around Hamid's shoulders, steadying him.

Hamid looked around, dumbfounded. "Where are we? What is this place?"

A grin formed on Bernstein's face, shaving years off his features. He looked like a ten-year old boy who was eager to show his best friend a newly acquired treasure. Throwing his arms out to his sides, he gestured all around him. "This, my friend, is Ahm Shere! You were right! The inscription was right! The diamond brought it all back!" If he hadn't been kneeling, Bernstein looked as though he might leap into the air from sheer joy.

"But where is the pyramid?" Hamid sounded confused, disoriented. "Where is the camp?"

"The pyramid has risen from the earth. It has been restored—as bright and shining as the day it was built! Can you imagine what is inside it, Akil? _Can you?_" Curiosity shone from Bernstein's eyes. "For now, we are headed back to the camp, to get you some medical attention. Then, we will return. The greatest discovery of all time awaits us!"

"Sorry to bother you, old chum," Charles cut in. "But you saw how the jungle simply erupted from that pyramid, didn't you? It was like a flood, simply spewing out in all directions. How can you be so certain that the camp even _exists_ anymore? It could have been completely swept away."

Bernstein looked momentarily chagrined, but then quickly brushed away the concern. Of course the camp still existed. All right, so maybe it was going to be a little…disrupted, but they'd fix things up in no time. Charles was just being his usual stick-in-the-mud self. He smiled at Hamid. "Not to worry, friend. We're very nearly there." He mentally crossed his fingers, for he wasn't at all sure that they were even going in the right direction. "They'll all be there, waiting for us to get back, I'm sure."

Just then, Robert Price turned around, facing them, and his expression revealed that he had puzzled out the answer to his question. "This is a tropical rain forest. Where are the animals? Where is the _noise_? There should be sound everywhere. This place is as silent as a tomb…"

Almost as if the jungle had heard his words, and decided to respond, an ominous rippling began to move towards them, coming from the direction of the pyramid. Price spun around, looking in the direction of the rustling grass and undergrowth, but he could see nothing. His face hardening, he reached into the breast pocket of his coat, withdrawing a small but powerful handgun from where it had been concealed. Removing the safety, he pointed it into the forest, towards whatever was coming their way. Without looking back, he ordered the others to their feet.

"Get up, and get moving. Something is out there, and it's coming our way. _Move_! Head for the camp. I'll be right behind you!"

Charles was up and off the boulder before Robert had even finished speaking. Like a shot, he raced in the direction of the camp, not even bothering to wait for the others. Bernstein stood, helping the Egyptian man to his feet, again supporting him with his arm.

"Can you make it, friend?"

Hamid smiled shakily at Bernstein. "Well, John, I most certainly intend to try…" They hurried off behind Charles, leaving Price alone in the glade.

He continued to watch the advancing ripple of movement. A minute passed, then two. Suddenly, when it was no more than three meters away, the ripple simply…stopped. Price looked around, shaken. Obviously, there was something out there. But where? Nervously, he moved the gun from side to side, aiming at shadows. Finally, he lowered the weapon, and with a nervous chuckle, was about to turn and go after the others.

With an explosion of movement, a little body launched itself out of the undergrowth directly in front of him, spear waving, rotten teeth leering at him in a sibilant hiss, empty eye sockets glaring at him. Price screamed—a low, guttural sound—and yanked the gun back up into position, firing it directly into the face of the horrifying little creature, which flew apart in a rotten spray before his eyes. Within seconds, though, another leaped at him, and then another, and Price fought back his terror, rapidly firing off round after round. _What in God's name had they walked into, here?_ Finally, when he thought he would be overcome by the sheer number of the army of little zombies, their number seemed to dwindle, and with a final shot, he dispatched the last of them.

Not waiting to see if any more were coming after their fallen comrades, Price wheeled around and tore off after the other three men, running as though the hounds of hell were in pursuit.

* * *

The camp was a shambles. Boxes and gear were strewn everywhere, tents were overturned and flung aside, and people wandered in shock, staring at the devastation all around. The mess tent was very nearly destroyed. A large palm tree had hurled itself up from the ground in the exact center of the large, open-sided structure, yanking the stakes out from the ground and lifting the tent high into the air, where it now hung like a tattered flag from the topmost fronds of the giant tree. After a brief discussion, the team that remained at the camp had decided to leave it there, on the off chance that the missing men and Eliana would somehow see it waving above the shorter trees in the canopy, and be able to use it as a landmark to find their way back. 

Callie walked through the mess, talking quietly with Sabir, who had recovered fairly well from his shock over seeing the regenerated Pygmy and the return of Ahm Shere. He had rallied quickly, once the initial chaos had subsided, and had taken charge of the laborers, ordering them here and there, attempting to get the camp back into some sort of order. Doug had taken charge of the students, trying to calm them down as much as possible, and having them pitch in with the clean up as well. Of the Sudanese, there was no sign. Callie assumed that they were holed up in one of the tents, recovering from the shock of what had happened, and conveniently avoiding the clean up work.

"Sabir, I'm going to need clean water for Eric. Could you please have someone bring several jugs to his tent?" Her low-pitched voice was deliberately calm and soothing, since she was well aware that none of the laborers wanted to set foot anywhere near the sick man's tent. "They won't need to come inside at all. They can just leave it outside near the door."

Sabir nodded. "Do not worry, little lady! I will send one of the superstitious idiots over at once. These men—they have no more sense than the rocks in the ground! Bah!" Shaking his head in disgust, he walked away, pausing for a moment to yell at a hapless Egyptian worker. Callie smiled wanly. Having someone like Sabir around was a good thing. He was a practical, level-headed sort, who rolled with the punches and took things in stride as much as possible. Oh, that they were all like Sabir…she shook her head sadly. After the jungle had plowed through the encampment, about a dozen of the laborers, frightened out of their wits by what had happened, had run off, screaming about evil spirits and god's anger. They had disappeared into the jungle, and had yet to return. She couldn't help but worry about them—who knew what was out there?

Callie approached Eric's tent, and was again surprised to find that the explosive return of the oasis had simply passed by, leaving it untouched. All of the other tents had sustained damage of some sort, but not his. After the flood of rebirth, her first thought had been for Eric's safety, and she had raced to his tent, expecting the worst. Instead, she had found it totally unscathed, the jungle having grown up all around, surrounding the small structure almost protectively. Eric, lying inside the tent, had been completely unaware of the chaos that had passed over and around him.

Stopping outside the zippered flap, she donned her protective mask and gloves. Eric's condition had grown progressively worse during the night and early morning hours, and although he was still conscious, he was in an almost trance-like state, lethargic and nearly unresponsive. The more time that passed, the more certain Callie became that her initial diagnosis had been correct. As the hours dragged by, Eric's eyes had become more and more bloodshot, and the sclera was now almost completely red. His facial muscles had slackened, taking on an almost mask-like, expressionless cast. And the ruby-red, star-like rash that had originally been confined to his upper body had progressed until it covered almost all of him. Thankfully, though, with the worsening of the symptoms, Eric's level of pain had surprisingly subsided. But the sudden disappearance of pain worried Callie a great deal. She was terribly afraid that the lessening of the pain was simply a sign that the disease was now eating through his nervous system, dissolving the nerve endings before they had a chance to transmit any pain signals to his brain.

It had been only a day since she'd arrived. Only a day since the blood samples had been carted off to Khartoum for analysis. How quickly could the lab turn those tests around? She thought that they could do so fairly rapidly—the Ebola outbreaks here in Sudan and in nearby Zaire during the past twenty-five years had taught the public health officials in this part of the world valuable lessons in speedy diagnosis and disease containment. And the World Health Organization was due to arrive at any time. Her radio contact with them yesterday had been brief and to the point. If she was relatively certain that what she was seeing was Ebola, then they would be there, and quickly. No one in any country had any desire to let a disease like this particular filovirus get out of control. But how would they find the camp, now? They were expecting to find an insolated camp, surrounded by desert. What would they think when they got to the coordinates and instead discovered a lush, tropical forest? Not able to answer that question to her satisfaction, the young doctor simply pushed it away.

Callie sighed, preparing to put on the mask of cheerful professionalism that she knew Eric needed to see. Unresponsive though he may be, she knew he was at least marginally aware of what was going on around him. And a patient's mental state was important to their well-being. If he thought she was giving up, or worse yet, was afraid of him, Eric's spirit would be dealt a possibly mortal blow. No, Callie needed to remain calm and upbeat, no matter how she felt on the inside. And on the inside, she was just as frightened as any of the superstitious laborers, who skulked about the camp, giving Eric's tent as wide a berth as possible.

Callie was indeed afraid, because no matter how much she read about this particular disease, and however unlikely it was to be transferable through the air, no one had ever managed to prove that fact to anyone else's satisfaction. The thing was, no one knew all there was to know about Ebola. Where it came from, how exactly it passed from host to host, and where it went when it eventually faded back into dormancy were all mysteries. Somehow, the path always led back to this little part of the world, to the rainforests and jungles of sub-Saharan Africa. But no matter where anyone looked, or how diligently they searched, the answers remained hidden. Ebola was a mystery, a deadly one, and Callie would have been a fool if she weren't terrified.

But she was a doctor, first and foremost, and her patient was lying inside, sick and possibly dying, and she had a job to do. Steeling herself, she opened the flap and stepped into the sick man's tent.

* * *

"Stop! I have to rest for a minute. Please…" Eliana gasped out the words, out of breath and panting from their race through the jungle. The trees were dense and the undergrowth thick, and though Imhotep had led the way, doing his best to clear a path through the almost impenetrable green wall, Eliana had received her share of welts and scratches from the spiky thorns and sharp-edged leaves on the foliage that blocked their path. 

Imhotep slowed down reluctantly, obviously uneasy. "We must get out of the jungle as soon as possible. There are dangers here…" As he spoke, his eyes continually scanned the surrounding scrub, watching for signs of pursuit. For now, there were none. Perhaps they would be safe in resting for a few moments. He nodded towards a moss-covered boulder, telling Eliana without words that she should sit.

But Eliana didn't sit. When Imhotep turned to face her, she gasped, noticing for the first time the toll that their mad race through the scraggly underbrush had taken on his nearly naked body. He was battered and scratched from head to foot, his chest and arms covered with vicious looking cuts from the wickedly sharp thorns and razor-edged leaves they had run past. Several of the deeper scratches oozed blood; others were simply red, angry-looking welts. His legs, too, were scratched and bleeding, and his feet…Eliana's eyes dropped to Imhotep's bare feet, and she winced, realizing how much damage must have been done from running over the uneven, sometimes rocky ground. Even with all the damage he had sustained, however, the priest showed no pain, no discomfort. In fact, he hardly even appeared to be breathing hard. _What kind of enormous self-control does the man have?_ Eliana wondered.

Slowly, she approached him, reaching out a hand to trace the path of the most serious injury, a deep gash that started at his left shoulder and traced a jagged path down the pectoral muscle, ending on his upper abdomen. Her fingers came away bloody. For a long moment, she stared down at his blood on her hand, and a peculiar emotion coursed through her—part guilt, part sadness, part an inexplicable sense of loss. It was an emotion that she was unwilling to analyze. Instead, she looked up, meeting his eyes, and the hot glitter she saw in them made her catch her breath and her stomach somersault. "Y-you're hurt," she stammered, backing up a step or two, putting some distance between them.

Imhotep looked down at himself, seeing for the first time the injuries he had sustained. An almost bemused look crossed his face as he, too, touched the jagged gash on his chest, and saw the blood there—red, living blood, flowing freely from the cut in his flesh. A cut that was not healing over instantaneously, and fading away as though it had never been. A cut that was another sign of his restored mortality. He wiped his bloody fingers on the fabric covering his thigh and looked at her, the pensive look gone, replaced by one of studied indifference.

"It is nothing."

"Of course it's not 'nothing,'" she disagreed, coming forward once more, this time taking the black robe from around her shoulders and handing it to him. "Here—take this and wear it. I'm sorry I kept it as long as I did. I don't need it—my jeans and shoes protect my legs and feet, and my T-shirt does a good enough job with the rest." She shoved the robe into his hands, not giving him a choice. "I just wish that we had some way of cleaning those cuts for you. They should be treated with antiseptic and covered, but I guess that will have to wait until we reach the camp…"

Somewhat reluctantly, he took the robe, holding it in his hands for a moment, looking at her quizzically. "The camp?"

"Well, yes, the camp—the place my father and I and the rest of the team stayed while we worked at the site. Where else is there to go?" She stared at him, confused. There was nowhere else _to_ go—the camp had been surrounded by desert in all directions, a hundred miles of burning hot sand separating it from the nearest village. Unless he was aware of some luxury resort hidden here in the trees, she couldn't think of where else they might be heading.

"I do not think that my going to this 'camp' would be a wise decision," he stated, a frown furrowing his brow and making the corners of his mouth turn down. Eliana dragged her eyes away from his mouth, disgusted with herself.

"Well, what are you going to do? Stay here in the jungle?" Eliana stared at him, wondering what on earth he was thinking. Not a wise decision? Why ever not? After all of the day's events, it shouldn't be much more difficult to explain the sudden appearance of another person. That is, if anyone even _noticed_ an extra person. Eliana was quite sure that the archaeological team had enough to think of besides that. For a moment, a shard of worry for the camp prodded at her. _What if they had not fared so well? What if…_ She shook her head, not willing to consider that possibility. _The camp was safe. It had to be._

The priest had not answered her question. He stood staring at her, the robe in his hands, clearly undecided as to what they should do. All his attention had been focused on getting them away from the pyramid, through the jungle. But what would they do once they had done that? Where would they go then? And there was still the question of the task he must accomplish. But to go to a camp, where there were many people, who would undoubtedly ask many questions…

"Tell me of this camp. How many people will be there? Will it be possible for us to remain unnoticed?" And then, remembering the man they had left behind, "Are there more Med Jai?"

Eliana shook her head, and a pain shot through her heart when she remembered Ardeth. "No, there are no more 'Med Jai,' whatever that is." She gave the priest a hard look, still upset that he had left Ardeth behind and forced her away from the pyramid. "Ardeth was the only member of his tribe to join our camp."

The priest's countenance remained blank, void of emotion, and realizing that she would be unable to provoke a reaction from him, Eliana continued. "As for the rest, there's a team of three archaeologists—my father and his colleague, Akil Hamid, and his assistant, Eric. There are thirteen students working with them, and about fifty or so workers—locals, mostly, although there are some from Egypt, and a couple from Israel. The camp itself is pretty austere." She looked around at the abundance of tropical foliage. "Probably even more austere after this little episode."

"And if we were to go to this camp?" He prodded her for the answer to the most important question. "Would we remain unnoticed?"

"Well, _you_ might be able to blend in with the rest of the workers," she cast a wary gaze at him, wondering if that was strictly the truth. Even if he weren't dressed so…uniquely, the priest had an indefinable air about him, an aura of command that would set him apart from the crowd of laborers. He would be like a thoroughbred stallion among a group of pack mules. But maybe, if they dressed him inconspicuously enough…

She went on. "_I_ certainly wouldn't remain unnoticed, though—I'm the boss's daughter, and besides that, I'm the only female in the camp." She paused, remembering something. "Well, I take that back. There is one other female there—the doctor that arrived yesterday to take care of Eric. She's a local, too."

The mention of a doctor caught Imhotep's attention. "A healer? Why is a healer needed at your camp?"

Eliana looked at him, curious as to why that would catch his attention. "I told you. Eric—Dad's assistant—is ill. He's got some sort of virus, I guess. It's pretty bad—they've sent samples of his blood off for tests, and the whole camp is under quarantine…"

"'Quarantine'?"

"Quarantine—isolation. No one is allowed into or out of the camp. Not until Eric's disease is diagnosed and they can be sure there is no danger of it spreading. No one else has gotten sick yet, but it's only been a short while…" Eliana stopped, worry for Eric showing plainly on her face. "He's _very_ sick."

"What are the symptoms of this disease?" Imhotep asked the question in a casual tone, unwilling to let Eliana see how interested he was in her answer. As she described Eric's illness, the arrival of the doctor, and the subsequent quarantine, he nodded, indicating his understanding, but not allowing her to see the growing dread building inside him. The description of this sickness, the progression of the disease… It jarred in his mind, resurrecting old memories of the days when he himself had been one of Egypt's healers. And the memories were not pleasant ones. Could this be the plague of which Amun-Re had spoken? That he could have stumbled upon it in such a way was almost too easy, too effortless. But finding the plague, and dealing with it, were two very different things. For if this were the plague, and if it was indeed what Imhotep feared it to be, his task would be anything but easy. In fact, it might prove impossible. Still, there was the question of how this man—Eric, she had called him—had contracted the disease in the first place.

"How did he become infected with this disease?" Again, the question was asked in a mildly curious tone, not revealing the underlying concern.

Eliana shot him a glance, not sure if he'd believe her or not. Then again, after all that had happened today, what did it matter if one more unbelievable thing was added to the growing list of impossibilities? "That's the strange part," she said, watching closely to see his reaction to her next words. "He seems to have picked it up by coming into contact with some sort of tainted fluid. Fluid that was flowing from a statue of Anubis that they found down in a grotto inside the pyramid."

Imhotep turned away from her, deliberately hiding his face from her sight. So this disease had its origins inside the pyramid of Ahm Shere? That was indeed food for thought. It was looking more and more likely that this was undeniably the plague he had been charged with eradicating. But how would he go about doing so? That was the real question, now. And the answers would lie with the sick man, in the camp. No matter how reluctant he was to follow it, the path seemed undeniably to lead in that direction. With his back still towards her, he spoke.

"I have decided. We will go to this camp of yours."

"I suppose if you don't want to be noticed, we could come up with some sort of disguise for you." He turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised questioningly. "I mean," she continued, "you're not exactly dressed to blend in very well…"

Imhotep looked down at the clothes he was wearing, and grimaced. _No_, he supposed, _she was correct._ From what he recalled of the way people dressed in this age, he would not 'blend in' very well at all. Even wearing the robe, he would look too conspicuous.

"Once we reach the camp," she continued, a small frown wrinkling the skin between her eyebrows, "I'll see if I can find some clothing for you. Sabir might be able to help…"

"Sabir? This is someone you trust?"

"Well, as much as I trust anyone there." Her words didn't inspire the greatest confidence, but they would have to do. They had little time, and fewer choices. "In the meantime, you might want to tear a few strips of cloth from the hem of that thing, and wrap them around your feet. You've got no shoes, and your feet must be hurting terribly…"

Imhotep stared at her. She was actually worried about him? Worried about _his feet_? If the whole situation hadn't been so utterly preposterous, it might have made him laugh. In another time, another lifetime, he _would_ have laughed. Instead, he simply shook his head.

"I am fine. We must go on." Quickly, he donned the robe, glancing again at the shadows moving among the foliage. "Which direction is the camp?"

Eliana looked around, biting her lip in frustration. She was totally turned around in the unfamiliar terrain, and their headlong flight from the pyramid had confused her even more. She looked up, and saw the sun's rays, coming from low in the sky to her left. Which would make that west. And the camp was due north from the excavation, and the pyramid, which meant they had already been traveling in the right direction. She had no way of knowing how far they had already come, but the camp, or whatever was left of it, should be somewhere straight ahead of them. She pointed in that direction.

"That way. I think."

Imhotep nodded, and took her hand, preparing to lead the way into the dense undergrowth. Suddenly he stopped, turning back to her. "Do you still have the Scepter?" Sometime during their flight through the jungle, he had paused to hand the collapsed spear to her, telling her in no uncertain terms that if the need arose, she was to use the weapon. She had lifted an eyebrow at him then, wondering why he was so concerned about what might be lurking in the jungle, but she had not questioned him. Instead, she had simply attached it to the waistband of her jeans.

She patted the weapon that hung by her side. "Yes. I have it."

"Good. Remember—if the need should arise, you are to use it. Do you understand?"

She nodded, and he pulled her into the jungle.

* * *

The shadowy fronds of foliage concealed the man who skulked within, huddled over the satellite phone's transmitter. He was not far from the camp, but thanks to the new ground cover, he didn't need to be. Nooks and crannies in which to hide, scarce before, were now plentiful. Quickly, he punched in the series of numbers that would connect him to his contact in Tripoli. Every few minutes, he spared a quick glance over his shoulder, out into the shifting patterns of sunlight and shade in the surrounding jungle. No one was there, but it _felt_ like he was being watched. He had been in this business for many years, and he was not prone to skittishness or unwarranted fear. So the eerie feeling that there were eyes all around him, watching him as he conducted his covert business, unsettled him greatly. When the call finally went through, his conversation was brief, to the point. 

"Yes. There have been some unexpected developments here." He described the recent events succinctly, in a smooth, unbroken flow of Arabic. "This has changed things, somewhat. I believe that the additional men you offered before would be of some use now."

He listened, as the voice on the other end of the line offered clipped instructions. Nodding, he answered, "Yes. I will do as you say, and I will be waiting for the additional men. I am grateful." With that, he severed the connection and hurriedly packed up the compact phone, all the while nervously looking around for the unseen watchers.

* * *

"You are sure that this is the right direction?" Imhotep stopped, turning towards Eliana. The doubt in his voice, and on his face, was obvious. 

"No, of course I'm not sure! If I was sure, don't you think we'd have found it by now? Don't you think that _I_ want to get there, too?" She very nearly shouted at him. She was discouraged herself—she had no idea if they were even going in the right direction. Everything looked the same out here, and to make matters worse, it was getting darker and darker. The sun had almost set and the deep shadows in the jungle were lengthening, merging into one another, forming a vast blanket of darkness. She felt like screaming in frustration—like falling to the ground and pounding her hands and feet like a thwarted two-year-old. With every minute that passed, her worry for her father, and Eric, and everyone else in the camp grew stronger. What if the camp was simply…gone?

Eliana wiped the back of her arm across her eyes, using the sleeve of her long-sleeved T-shirt to dry the tears from her stinging eyes. If she started crying now, she was afraid she'd never stop. Turning away from the priest, unwilling for some reason to let him see this weakness, she continued to mop at her eyes, angry with herself for the uncharacteristic display, but unable to stop it. For some reason, ever since she'd been in that accursed pyramid, her emotions had been spinning out of control, and she had been incapable of stopping them. It was like riding a runaway roller coaster, and she didn't like the feeling. It made her feel weak, vulnerable…exposed.

Eliana stiffened as she sensed him walk up behind her, near enough to touch. He was so close that she could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the musky, spiced scent of his skin. She was painfully aware of every breath he took, even though she herself seemed to have forgotten how to move air into and out of her lungs. When his hands fell lightly on her shoulders, she nearly jumped out of her skin. It was an impersonal touch, much as one would offer any acquaintance in need of comfort, and yet the feel of his hands burned through the thin cotton of her shirt.

"I am sorry," he said, and for a fraction of a second, his fingers tightened their hold on her shoulders. "We will find the camp."

His words were meant to calm her, to comfort her, but they simply made her angry. How did he know that they would find the camp? For all either of them knew, the camp had been destroyed, and they would spend eternity wandering through this miserable rain forest. She was about to shrug off his hands and stomp off, wanting nothing more than to indulge in a gigantic burst of self-pity, when she looked up and saw a…face. If it could be called that. Framed all around with dense foliage, the small, wrinkled visage stared back at her through eyeless, shrunken sockets that were gaping holes in its brown, leather-like face. Slowly, the hideous, decayed mouth curled back in a feral grin that revealed rotten, yellowed teeth that had been filed to sharp points. A hissing noise wheezed from the Pygmy's mummified lungs, filling the air with a sound like the rattling of bones.

At her startled intake of breath, Imhotep looked up, and he, too, saw the nightmarish vision peering at them from the leaves. Unlike Eliana, he knew what they faced. In an instant, he had pulled her back from the little demon, stepping in front of her so that his own body shielded her from any attack. Imhotep knew that he had little chance of controlling the monster that confronted them, even though he had successfully done so the last time he had trekked through the Oasis of Ahm Shere. That sort of mental domination had depended entirely on their recognizing him as their master, an undead creature himself, lord of their kind. He was now a mere mortal, possessing no special powers over the creatures of Ahm Shere. Still…

Imhotep traced a quick gesture in the air, a low, slashing motion with his hand, one that commanded unquestioning obedience to his will. In other times, the gesture would have been instantly obeyed, the creature bowing and scraping in mute supplication before losing no time in making a hasty retreat. Now, the demonic little thing simply stared blankly at the priest, an almost confused look crossing its face, as though it wondered what the mortal was attempting to do. And then its toothy grin widened, and it looked back over its shoulder, hissing out a low command to its comrades. Imhotep backed away slowly, pushing Eliana behind him, still shielding her. He was not surprised at all that the creature had failed to be intimidated. The powers granted him by the Hom Dai were completely gone, along with his immortality. Which meant that he was just as susceptible to the poison-tipped spears wielded by these little devils as his caravan had been, seventy years ago. And out of that massive caravan, less than a handful had survived.

"Now what do we do?" Eliana was scared to death. She knew that they were horribly outnumbered, and the tiny, vicious-looking creatures looked like they could move quickly through the dense forestation. She and the priest had backed up several meters already, and yet the creature and its troops waited, not attacking, but simply watching them as they slowly moved away.

Imhotep took her hand in his, his fingers wrapping tightly around hers, his grip firm and strong. Giving her hand a quick squeeze of reassurance, he looked back quickly, and met her eyes. "Now, we run…"

In a burst of movement, he turned, pulling her with him into the jungle and plowing through the trees and undergrowth, heedless of the grasping branches and sharp thorns. They raced for their lives, hurtling through the ever-darkening jungle, and behind them, the forest exploded into a fury of branches and vines as the creatures of Ahm Shere finally gave pursuit.

* * *

Eliana skidded to a stop, arms flailing in the air, only steps away from the edge of a rocky drop off that plunged twenty meters straight down. Thankfully, the priest's reflexes were quick, and he managed to bring himself to a stop before he crashed into her and sent them both flying over the edge. Eliana turned a panicked green gaze his way, asking without words what they would do now. The sounds of pursuit came ever closer, the evil chittering of the creatures growing louder and louder, and they could see the menacing ripple in the groundcover relentlessly flowing towards them. 

"Do you still have the Scepter?" Imhotep turned to Eliana, extending a hand for the weapon. "We have no choice. They are coming too quickly. We will have to stand and fight. Stay behind me—I will try to shield you."

"You can't possibly hold them all off by yourself," Eliana protested, unhooking the collapsed weapon and handing it to him. As he quickly expanded the Scepter, completing its metamorphosis from talisman to weapon, she bent and picked up a thick branch from the ground. With a quick half-smile in his direction, she added, "I guess this is better than nothing. We'll see if all of that softball in high school and college paid off—maybe I can still wield a mean bat, huh?" Then, seeing his confused look, she waved away the question. "Never mind—not important."

Just then, the first of the creatures burst from the groundcover in front of them, not more than two meters away. It was followed quickly by more and more of its comrades, until they faced a veritable army of the evil-looking creatures.

"Stay behind me," Imhotep ordered Eliana, stepping in front of her, and bringing the spear out in front of him. He held the light, elegant weapon in both hands, his stance defensive but unyielding. The reaction of the creatures, though, was as if he had suddenly produced a flamethrower and turned it on them. A collective gasp went up from their hideous, gaping mouths, and as one, they threw down their weapons, shielding their eyes from the sight of the spear, bowing their heads in subservience and backing away from the two humans. Like a receding tide, they slowly melted back into the shadowed darkness from which they had come.

"What…what happened?" Eliana asked, expelling the breath she had unconsciously been holding, in anticipation of the impending attack. "What did you do?"

"I did nothing," the priest answered her, shaking his head and slowly lowering the spear. He sounded as mystified as she was. "If anything, it was the Scepter that frightened them away."

"The Scepter? But how would they know about the Scepter? Why would they be afraid of it?" As Eliana spoke, she stepped backwards, forgetting for a moment about the cliff behind her. As her boot came into contact with the loose, uneven soil, she slipped, dropping the branch she held, and swinging her arms out to try to regain her balance. Imhotep lunged forward, reaching out for her, but the soil beneath her foot gave way, collapsing in on itself and falling away down into the ravine below. She slipped, and his hand grasped empty air as Eliana began to slide down the crumbling embankment.

Suddenly, the entire cliff face seemed to give way, heaving itself away in a sickening lurch from the solid ground just over a meter from where they stood. As the entire ledge began to fall to pieces and slide down the side of the precipice, Eliana and Imhotep went with it, plunging downwards in a free fall, scraping and sliding over the stony cliff wall. As he slid down the rock face, Imhotep managed to grab onto Eliana's hand, holding on tightly as they plunged downwards.

With a sickening thud, they landed on a narrow ledge, a small outcropping of rock about halfway between the top of the cliff and the floor of the ravine. Groaning, Imhotep pulled Eliana up more securely onto the ledge, and then collapsed beside her. She lay there, her eyes closed, not moving, but he could see that she was breathing steadily and deeply, and she didn't appear to be bleeding anywhere. Fighting against the tide of exhaustion that was threatening to overwhelm him, Imhotep moved her so that he lay between her and the edge. Finally, with nothing more he could do for either of them in the gathering darkness, he lay back and closed his eyes, giving in to the weariness that consumed him.


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

_Might of might. Splendor of splendor. This is the terror inherent in love; that such power may exist without reason, that death may be feared and lusted for as a woman, that passion gives rise to passion. I am moved by desire as if a boat transported me from horizon to horizon. What I have done for love, let it be held against me. I am a man whose heart is full._

_--Excerpt from "Adoration of Ra", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

The full moon rode low on the horizon, just over the tree line, shining silvery yellow in the vast blue-black canvas of the night sky. Stars shone in the background, mute supplicants worshipping at the feet of the goddess of the night. A cool breeze drifted through the trees, fanning the jungle with blessed relief from the day's humidity. No sound broke the silence of the night, save the rustling of leaves and grasses in the wind. The jungle was as quiet as a tomb.

Eliana stirred to wakefulness, opened her eyes, and took in the scene spread out before her. She and the priest were lying on a narrow ledge, high above the floor of the ravine they had fallen into. Below, the green carpet of the jungle spread out in waves from the cliff face, painted silvery gold by the moon's illumination. Less than a meter behind her, the sheer rock of the cliff rose nine or ten meters straight up, forming a jagged, unscalable wall. Though the ledge they were on was narrow—perhaps two meters across at its widest point, it was long, stretching along the entire length of the cliff like rocky wainscoting. If they walked along it, Eliana thought that they might be able to find a point at which they could either climb up or down.

She looked over to her left, where the priest lay near her, one arm crossed over his chest, the other stretched out on the ground beside him, his head turned slightly towards her. She didn't remember much about the fall, except that he had managed to catch her hand at the last minute, pulling her with him up onto the ledge and to safety. After that, memory failed her. If she had to guess, though, she suspected that he had deliberately placed himself between her and the edge, once again using his body to shield her from danger. How many times, now, during the course of the day they'd spent together, had he protected her in such a way?

The priest was either asleep or unconscious. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell deeply, evenly. He didn't seem to be injured in any way, but Eliana knew that a fall like they had taken could produce injuries not visible to the eye, and she was concerned that he was not awake. Propping herself up on one elbow, she turned to face him, studying his features in the bright moonlight that washed over them. That he was the man that had haunted her dreams, she no longer doubted. The questions she carried with her now involved the whys and the hows, not the whos or the whats. The answers to those questions had been staring her in the face for the past twelve hours or so, and she had simply come to accept them. Ahm Shere had been restored, the pyramid had been raised up from its resting place beneath the earth, and she had somehow managed to bring this man, this ancient Egyptian priest, back from whatever place he had been consigned to, after Ahm Shere's violent death many years ago.

Each time she looked at him, Eliana was struck anew by the sheer masculine beauty of his face and form. Now, with his features relaxed in sleep, his full lips slightly parted, he looked years younger, the characteristic arrogance of his expression softened and smoothed into one of almost boyish innocence. That hint of vulnerability spoke to her heart more than any show of strength could have, and with a hand that trembled slightly, Eliana reached out and gently traced the contours of his face—the sculpted planes and angles of his high forehead and cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the strong line of his jaw, the soft fullness of his lips. Trailing her fingers over the smooth golden bronze of his skin, she memorized his features with her touch, committing them to her mind and heart. Had he been awake, her own inner cautiousness would never have allowed her to touch him like this, for she sensed the danger he represented to all of her carefully laid out guards and defenses. Asleep, though, he was non-threatening, irresistibly approachable, and she selfishly took full advantage. It was almost as though her senses had taken control of her mind, banishing her doubts and fears to a dark corner, allowing her deepening emotions full reign. Her hand dropped to his chest, partially exposed by the opening of the black robe, and once again, she traced over the warm bronze skin, lightly exploring the smooth contours of the flesh beneath.

She knew his name, had heard it many times in her dreams, heard it come from Ardeth Bay's lips, spoken with the same venom one would use in uttering a curse, but as yet the priest's name had not crossed her lips in this lifetime. She was almost afraid to utter the word, as though by giving a name to the man, she would be irrevocably setting forth on a path she didn't know if she could follow. Giving voice to the name meant accepting what had happened, what he was, what she had been. And yet, the syllables hovered on her lips, almost alive themselves, and finally, she released them on a sigh.

"Imhotep…"

As she whispered his name, her breath fanned his face, and she lifted her hand to once more touch his face. But so engrossed was she in the feel of him, the texture of his skin under her exploring touch, that she failed to notice his eyelids flicker and his breathing subtly change. Suddenly, with the speed of a striking cobra, her hand was trapped in his, his fingers wrapping around hers in a grip of pure steel, effortlessly holding her hand immobile. Shocked, her eyes flew to his, and her breath caught in her throat as she recognized the hot gleam in his eye for what it was…desire. Desire that was reluctantly, begrudgingly bestowed, and tinged with a bitter anger and an obvious distrust. She could see the emotions warring in the deep brown of his eyes, see the play of expression over his features. That he desired her was obvious. That he was disgusted with himself because of that desire was equally obvious.

She tried to pull her hand from his, but his grip was unrelenting, an iron shackle covered in silk. The heat of his touch permeated her skin, burning through layer upon layer of the shell she had painstakingly built around herself over the years, until it touched the raw nerves and from there traveled cell by cell through her entire body. Tears formed in her eyes as he gently but inescapably moved her hand and pressed it to his heart, holding it there with his, letting her feel the heat of his skin, the thud of his heart. Slowly, keeping her eyes locked with his, he raised her hand to his lips, pressing each fingertip to his mouth, unhurriedly taking his time, his lips tracing over every whorl of each of her fingerprints, tasting their unique shape and substance.

Once he had finished wreaking havoc with her hand, he slowly, inexorably increased the pressure on her arm, pulling her towards him until she was leaning over him, precariously balanced on one arm, looking down into his dark eyes, her reddish-brown hair falling forward over her shoulders, brushing against his chest. With a quick jerk, he pulled her off balance, and she collapsed on his chest, struggling to hold herself up and away from him with one hand. It was a useless struggle, though, one that she couldn't win, and if she were honest with herself, didn't want to.

Imhotep watched her closely, saw the answering desire in the green of her eyes, and saw the fear there, too. In a perverse, mean-spirited way, he was happy that she feared him, happy that she recognized that he was a danger to her, happy that she was as caught between conflicting emotions as he. This woman had caused him no end of grief, no end of trouble, and he was through with it. He would never again make the mistake of loving her, trusting her, believing in her and their love. Ah, but desire…desire was something else entirely.

It was odd…in this incarnation, she was as different from the Anck-su-namun he remembered as she could be, but he still felt the same craving for her that he always had. Anck-su-namun had been fire and ice, the burning heat of the desert at midday, the cold depths of the Nile at deep midnight. She had loved ardently, hated passionately, shone in the court of Seti like a captured star that had been brought down from the heavens. This woman was none of those things. She was still beautiful, but her beauty was that of a soft moonlit night, the scent of hibiscus floating over the water, the warm breeze of a harvest afternoon, the light of a spring morning. She did not burn at all—if anything, the fires within her were consciously, fiercely banked, held in check by a stubbornly rigid spirit. If Anck-su-namun had been a captured star in her old life, she was now a star that had never been permitted to become, one that had never managed to breach its own internal barriers and reach a temperature that would allow it to burst into flame.

And yet, different as she was, she was paradoxically still the same, and he still hungered for her. His lip curled down in self-disgust. This need, this yearning, it was a sickness in his soul, a depraved sort of obsession that not even the Hom Dai had managed to rot out of him.

"So you finally allow yourself to speak my name," he observed, and at his words Eliana realized that he had been awake for much longer than she had known. That bit of insight made her cheeks burn with shame, and she berated herself for her foolishness. How long had he lain there, letting her touch him, run her hands over him, caress him like some long-lost lover? _But you are_, a part of her mockingly interjected.

Again, she tried to pull away, and again he held her to him, her puny struggles worth nothing against the strength of his arms. Still holding her with one hand, he raised the other to the nape of her neck, curving it around the base of her skull, sliding his fingers into the silky waves of her hair, massaging the tense muscles of her scalp, sending shivers of longing coursing down the entire length of her body. He was like a master musician playing a familiar instrument, and he easily coaxed from her the music he desired. Her eyes drifted shut, and she expelled her breath in a long sigh.

"You are no longer Anck-su-namun. Who are you?" He had asked the question before, and had been content to let the matter rest when she had not answered him. Now, he would have the answer, and he was well aware of how to make her tell him. Pulling her even nearer, so close that she could feel the breath as it left his lips, so close that she could see the tiny golden flecks of reflected moonlight in the brown depths of his eyes, he continued to caress the nape of her neck, letting her hair tangle and weave around his fingers. His other hand relaxed its grasp on hers, and he let their fingers intertwine, lace together in a tingling, seductive hold. "The name the Med-Jai used—Eliana? That is what you are now called?"

Her throat was dry, she felt paralyzed, frozen—there was no way she could force a sound from her mouth. Mutely, she nodded, and he tested the name once again, lips forming the syllables, the low, husky murmur of his voice giving the simple name an almost indecent intimacy.

"Eliana." Then, a note of puzzlement crept into his voice. "It is a Hebrew name, is it not?"

She nodded again, this time managing to croak out an audible reply. "My…my parents…were Jewish."

Imhotep mentally saluted fate yet again—Anck-su-namun being reborn into the lineage of the slaves was yet another one of the thousand little ironies that were woven into this tapestry. Yet, it mattered not what her ancestry or parentage was—it was, at this point, simply an interesting observation. There was no future for the two of them—she would go on with her life, whatever it was, and Imhotep would complete his task and enter the afterlife. And even if there had been something between them, some hope for a future, her ancestry would not have been an issue. Imhotep had never been among those who had ridiculed or felt contempt for the slaves. Oh, he had wondered at their slavish devotion to their One God, for in his time, at least, all of their praying and fasting had not seemed to make much difference in freeing them from their plight. He had, though, admired their resourcefulness and sheer endurance in flourishing as a captive people among the ruling Egyptian culture. There were worse fates—much worse—than being born of such stock.

"Eliana. Does the name have a meaning?" His hand continued its mesmerizing journey through her hair, over her scalp, and she had to force herself to concentrate.

"It means…it means 'God has answered'."

He laughed, then, and the sound was a harsh interruption of the spell his caressing hands had woven around them. _God had answered? How? When?_ Maybe God had answered Anck-su-namun in some way, and maybe he was in the process of answering Imhotep as well, but it had taken him a small eternity to finally get around to it.

Eliana was confused by his laughter, startled by Imhotep's abrupt change of mood. She looked into his eyes, and when she saw the laughing mockery there, she cringed. She had been a fool, a stupid, blind fool, letting his hands and the moonlight weave a fog of sorcery around her, making her forget who she was, where she was, what she needed to do. With a forceful push on his chest, she levered herself up from where she was lying, half sprawled over his body, and this time he let her go, his hands falling to his sides.

She sat on the rocky ledge, arms wrapped around her knees, fighting back the angry tears, furious with herself, furious with him, stubbornly refusing to even look at him when he rolled over and stood up, towering over her, fastidiously brushing the dirt from his robe. Finally, when she could ignore him no longer, she met his eyes, and the cool amusement lurking in them fanned her anger even more. With the sardonic twist of his lips that she somehow knew so well, he reached down a hand to help her to her feet, and when she angrily slapped his hand away and stood up on her own, he raised an eyebrow in mocking condescension.

Ignoring him, she began to follow the narrow ledge as it ran along the cliff face, calling over her shoulder as she went, "Let's get moving. I don't want to spend any more time alone in this jungle with you than I have to."

An amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Imhotep moved to follow her, carefully staying close enough behind to catch her, should she stumble or slip on the rock-strewn ledge.

* * *

They found the cave an hour later. It was on a narrow part of the ledge, set back into the cliff face, its mouth gaping open and a trace of cool, musty subterranean air wafting up from the depths. The entrance was fairly large—three meters tall at its highest point, and at least five meters wide, as well. Eliana unhooked the flashlight from where it was clipped to her belt loop, and stepped a half meter or so into the entrance, shining the light around inside. The cave appeared to widen as it burrowed into the mountainside, and the ceiling rose as well. The light wasn't bright enough to penetrate all the way to the back wall, so it was impossible to judge the true size of the cave, but this first room seemed to be large, and fairly dry. 

She turned back to the priest, who was no more than a few paces behind her. During the past hour, they had not spoken even once, but now she asked, "Do you want to stop here for a while, or keep going?"

Imhotep looked over her head, into the cave. If it had been solely up to him, he would have chosen to continue on, but a quick glance at Eliana showed him that she was in no shape to go on. She was past the point of exhaustion—her skin was pale, almost translucent looking, her eyes were underlined with shadowed smudges, and her whole body was starting to sag. The last hour had not been easy traveling, the ledge not making the most consistent of pathways, and they had often been forced to either move piles of fallen rocks or climb over them. Once, they had had to jump over a two meter gap in the ledge, and Eliana's boot had slipped on the other side. Imhotep had been unable to reach her, and although she had recovered her balance and ended up secure on the other side, he still shuddered to think of how close she had come to plunging down into the ravine. It had been a long day yesterday, followed by a long night, and although the moon was full, and lit the path brightly enough to travel by, they would be wise to stop and rest until morning.

"Stop." Eliana did her best not to show how relieved she was to hear that word, but he could see that she was pleased. "We can stay here until morning. Come inside."

Taking her by the elbow, ignoring her instinctive pull away, Imhotep led Eliana into the cave. The flashlight offered feeble illumination, but it was sufficient for them to see that the cave was uninhabited—nothing lurked inside that would be a danger to them. Gently prying the light from her fingers, Imhotep walked around the circumference of the large room. It seemed to be all there was of the cave—no tunnels leading to deeper levels, no hidden cracks or crevices leading to recessed hideaways. Just this one large room. It would do for what remained of the night.

Returning to her side, Imhotep handed Eliana the flashlight and pointed to one of the walls. "The ground over there is of sand—it will be softer for you."

Eliana looked up at him. In the dim light she couldn't see his features well enough to read his expression, but he had to be exhausted as well. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was perfectly fine, and resented the fact that she was here, slowing him down. And inexplicably, that bothered her. "Are you sure about staying here until morning? If you want to continue, there's no reason not to…"

With a gentleness that seemed at odds with his mocking derision of an hour ago, he tilted her chin up with the fingers of one hand and brushed her hair back with the other. "We both need rest. Come—lie down. Sleep if you can." Crossing over to the wall, pulling her with him, he sank down to his knees, settling himself as comfortably as he could on the sandy cave floor, leaning his back up against the rocky wall. Eliana watched him warily, unsure of whether she should sit or lie down. In truth, she felt like crumbling into a heap on the floor and sleeping for a hundred years.

With a small sigh, Imhotep raised his arm for her, holding out his hand in invitation. She stared at him for several seconds, unsure of whether or not to trust him, but then her weariness won out, and she took his hand, letting him pull her to him and wrap his arm around her. She felt ridiculously comforted by the small gesture—comforted and protected. With a sigh, she dropped her head onto his shoulder and was almost instantly asleep.

Asleep, her defensive guards were down, and she instinctively settled more securely in his arms, snuggling her face into the curve of his neck, curling her body into his, laying her hand on his chest. For the longest while, he simply held her to him, listening to her breathing, watching the way her hair fell around her shoulders, taking in the creamy whiteness of her skin, feeling the way her small, petite frame nestled against his much larger one. So different…yet so painfully the same.

Finally, Imhotep closed his eyes and felt the pull of sleep beginning to take him as well. But before he drifted off, he pulled Eliana more securely against his side and caught up the hand that rested on his chest in his much larger one, curling his fingers protectively around hers.

* * *

Some sound, some noise, awakened Eliana, and for a moment, she was disoriented, panicked. Sometime during the night, Imhotep had moved, leaving her curled up on the sandy floor of the cave, asleep and alone. She sat up, rubbing her arms against the chill of the cool night air in the cave, and looked around, seeking some sign of him in the darkness. But the cave was quiet, deserted. Had he gone? Had he decided that he could move more quickly without her and simply left her there? 

"Imhotep?" Her voice was small, tentative, scarcely more than a whisper as she spoke his name aloud for the second time. A second went by, then two.

"Over here." His voice came from the direction of the cave's entrance—low, soft, but immensely reassuring as she realized that he was still there with her. He hadn't left her and gone on by himself.

Looking towards the entrance, she saw him standing off to the side, leaning against the stone arch that formed the mouth of the cave. He was merely a shadow there in the night, the ebony robe he wore billowing slightly in the night breeze and blending in with the shadows, darkness upon darkness. She stood and walked to him, brushing the sand off her clothes as she went. Silently, she watched him as he gazed into the sky, a distant look on his face. It was early morning, still dark, but the moon had already sunk below the horizon, and the sky to the east was beginning to fade from the deep blue-black of midnight to the indigo of dawn. Above, the brightest of the stars still shone, their glittering light far away and cold against the dark canopy of sky.

Eliana had spent the last few hours sleeping in the priest's arms—now that she was awake again, though, she felt the old fears come crawling back, cautioning her to stay away from him. But he looked so alone standing there, staring up at the heavens with such a bleak look on his face, that she forced her doubts away and reached out, placing a tentative hand on his arm.

"What's wrong?"

At her words, he looked at her, but the glance was fleeting and distracted. He seemed far away, caught up in thoughts and memories from eons ago, lost among murky roads traveled thirty centuries past. He shook his head, as if to clear it, but the shadows remained in his eyes, and with a sigh, he resumed his study of the heavens.

"They say..." he began, and then cleared his throat, fighting to keep the emotion out of his voice. When he began again, the slight huskiness was gone, his tone once more cool and aloof. "They say that when the Pharaohs die, they ascend to the heavens and take their rightful place among the gods. They become the stars, and shine down upon us lesser mortals for all eternity." He laughed, a cold, humorless sound that was filled with despair. "If that is the case, then Seti is surely laughing at us now, as he looks down from the heavens."

Eliana was well aware of the ancient beliefs that Imhotep referred to, but all cultures had their myths and legends, and the viewpoint that held to the inherent divinity of kings had died in her world a long time ago. "In the religion I was raised to follow," she offered, her hand still on his arm, her eyes taking in the bitter, desolate look on his face, "we believe that all men are equal—kings are worth no more or no less than the most humble of servants—each has intrinsic value, each has inherent worth. When we die, we will be judged, but each person will be judged according to God's standards, not the rank or position they attained, or were born into, here on Earth."

"This God you speak of—He is the One God of the Hebrews?" He spared her another glance, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"Yes."

"I have never understood their beliefs." He shook his head. "Where was their God when they were taken into slavery? Where was their God during their years of oppression?"

"Where were your gods when you needed them?" The words were not meant to hurt, but she could see that they did, and she regretted them instantly.

"My gods did not abandon me—I abandoned _them_, centuries before." He turned to her, and his eyes burned into hers, his voice filled with bitterness. "And I did not need _my gods_ that last time you and I were together, during Ahm Shere's final moments. I needed _you_."

Eliana dropped her hand from his arm and turned away from the acrimony in that statement. The vision she'd had in the pyramid was still fresh in her mind—she could still see him there, hanging on that ledge, she could still see the body she had been in running away—and she knew without a doubt that he was referring to how she had betrayed him there. Maybe not her, exactly, but who she had been. The notion of past lives was becoming more and more real to her with each moment she spent with him. But her acceptance of the past did nothing to change it. There was nothing she could do to change any part of what had gone before. There was nothing left for her to say that wouldn't sound woefully weak and inadequate. But still, she would try.

"I'm sorry."

He ignored her, choosing instead to resume his study of the constellations.

"I'm so sorry. I don't know what else to say." The words were useless—much too small and insignificant to come near to repairing the damage that had been done.

"There is nothing else to say. It is the past. I am surprised you even remember it, much less acknowledge it."

"I remember very little of the past. I trust these memories very little—they are all so vague, so incomplete. Quite honestly, I don't even know if I can trust my own sanity any more. This has all pretty much pushed me past the limit of what I can believe…"

"Why do you doubt your sanity? There is more to the universe than any of us can possibly hope to understand. Why is it so difficult for you to believe that you have lived before, and before that as well?" He was genuinely curious as to why this modern world, with all of its marvels and miracles, had so little faith in the spiritual. Had they embraced science and technology so thoroughly that they only believed in what they could see in front of their eyes, feel with their hands? Had they completely disavowed the mystical, the supernatural, the magic that was everywhere? How could a society have progressed so far only to regress even farther?

"There was a time when I would have willingly accepted it all," she sighed, "but that was a long, long time ago. I was only a child."

He nodded, understanding that, at least. "Children have a unique gift for being able to accept seemingly unexplainable truths, which are truths all the same. That is why children are brought into the temples as acolytes at such a young age. Waiting too long before beginning training in the priesthood hardens the mind against the possibilities of the spirit."

" I am trying to accept this. I am. There is just _so much_ to accept."

"You do not remember your life as Anck-su-namun, or as Meela, do you?" The words were a statement, rather than a question.

She shook her head. "I remember very little. I remember bits and pieces of dreams. I remember the vision I had in the pyramid before I used the Scepter to…to bring you back. That vision was about the clearest thing that I do remember."

"And what did you see in this vision?"

"I was in another body—myself, yet not myself. I saw myself watching Ahm Shere self-destruct. I saw you and another man fighting. I saw you both fall into the pit. I saw a woman—I knew her, somehow—race to help the other man. I heard you call out to me. I saw myself…" Her voice broke. "…running away. The vision changed, then. I was no longer trapped in that other body. I was…separate, somehow. I was able to see you, even though I…the 'other' me…had already left. I saw you let go, tumble into the pit." She stopped for a moment, closing her eyes to the memory. When she continued, her voice was low, hoarse. "The look of betrayal on your face is something that will never leave me. It is something that I will carry in my heart forever."

"As will I." The look he gave her was hard, cold, and she was filled with the knowledge that her act of selfish cowardice in another life had cost them both deeply. She could say nothing more, so she turned to face the night, wrapping her arms around herself in a gesture that was a response to more than just the chill in the air.

Much as a part of her wanted to ignore it all, though, the analyst inside her head wanted nothing more than to keep picking away at it, until she was satisfied with the answers. "So this is real, then? All of it? The dreams, the vision, the…memories?"

"Real? Yes." The priest's words conveyed no doubt whatsoever. "I do not know what you have remembered of the past, save what you have told me, and I know nothing about who you are now, but I do know that you were once the woman I knew as Anck-su-namun. Part of her still lives in you."

"How? How does this work? What part of her is in me?" She turned to face him again, and there was a trace of desperation in her voice. "I need to know this. This…this sense that I am someone else, that I am trapped in someone else's life—it's frightening. Look, I know you don't owe me anything—God knows, you don't—but you're the only one who can answer these questions for me. Please…"

He had no reason not to tell her. "You and Anck-su-namun share the same _ka_, the same soul. Although your _ba_ is different from hers, the underlying essence of who you are, who she was, is unchanged. It is the part of you that I recognized as Anck-su-namun, the part of you that lasts through the ages, even though you are very different from the woman she was. The _ka_ is eternal. The _ba_ changes from incarnation to incarnation. It is what makes each lifetime unique. After death, the _ba_ and the _ka_ are separated, only joining together again in the afterlife, if one is fortunate enough to pass the test of the scales." Up to this point, his voice had been neutral, devoid of emotion, the words those of a teacher presenting a rather simple lesson on basic theology. Now, however, it took on an edge. "I am surprised you have not learned of all this from your _friend_, Ardeth Bay, the Med Jai."

"Ardeth? Why would Ardeth be able to tell me anything about this?" She was truly confused now. She knew that Ardeth played some part in all of this, but what? And how would he have been able to answer these questions?

"The Med Jai would have recognized you for who you are immediately, just as I did. Surely he must have reacted in some way when you first met." Imhotep sounded almost bored, as though he was explaining the most obvious fact in the world to a rather stupid student. "If he chose not to confront you at the time, he must have had some reason. But believe me, while you may consider Ardeth Bay your _friend_, he is no friend to Anck-su-namun, and _he knows_ that you were once Anck-su-namun."

The priest's words put a chill in Eliana's soul. Ardeth _knew_ about all of this? He _knew_, and he hadn't told her? She had revealed more of herself to Ardeth than to any other person in the world, and all the time he had been playing some elaborate cat-and-mouse game with her? He had allowed her think that he was a simple man of the desert, just an unremarkable part of the crew of laborers her father employed, letting her believe that he was her friend, while all the while he had been watching her, studying her, hiding things from her…

Eliana shook her head. _No_. She could not believe that about Ardeth. There must be some other explanation, some reason why he had not been honest with her. But he had known Imhotep, and that in itself gave credence to what the priest had told her. Eliana's inherent loyalty fought with her gut instinct, and the struggle ended in a miserable tie. She wouldn't let herself believe that Ardeth was not what he seemed, but there was no other way of explaining his reaction when he saw the priest. Still, even then, even when he was confronted with a man he obviously abhorred, he had tried to protect her. How could this all fit together?

"You keep referring to Ardeth as a Med Jai. What is a Med Jai?" And then, "Why do you hate each other?"

"Hate?" He laughed. "Hate is a puny word to describe what I feel for the Med Jai, Seti's puppets." Seeing that she had no idea what he was talking about, he went on. "The Med Jai are an ancient order, sworn to serve the Pharaohs of Egypt in life and death, down through the millennia. Ardeth Bay is a Med Jai. His hatred for me is his legacy, passed down through his Med Jai ancestors from age to age."

"Seti the First ruled Egypt during the late 13th century BCE…" Eliana stopped, doing the arithmetic in her head. "You mean this dates back _thirty-three hundred years_?" She had known they were talking about vast amounts of time, but putting a number to it, and the name of a particular dynasty, gave the whole strange tale a firmer claim on reality.

"Yes." He seemed completely unimpressed with the span of years, completely unruffled by the bizarre tale he was spinning. "For over three thousand years, you—Anck-su-namun—and I have suffered under the curse placed upon us by the Med Jai. Anck-su-namun's curse was to suffer through cycle after cycle of rebirth, her _ba_ lost forever, wandering through the underworld, unable to rejoin her _ka_, unable to enter the afterlife, the blessed lands of the West." He paused, a grim smile playing over his features, making him look almost frightening. "For me, the Med Jai reserved a special gift. I was given the honor of becoming the first person in history to be subjected to the Hom Dai."

"The Hom Dai?" Eliana wasn't sure she wanted to know, but she was compelled to ask. "What…"

He waved the words away, anticipating her question before it was asked. "The Hom Dai is the most odious curse that can be placed on an individual—it is elegant, almost beautiful in its simplicity. 'See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.' The accursed individual's tongue is cut out, his name is wiped clean from history's slates, and he is mummified alive, entombed within a sarcophagus filled with hundreds—thousands—of flesh-eating scarab beetles. There, he never dies, but ceases to live, doomed to rot in silent, hopeless torment for eon upon eon. Unless, of course, he is set free…" The smile was back, an almost evil smirk, and Eliana was afraid to hear more, yet unable to stop herself, for the horrible story was fascinating in a repulsively macabre way.

"That, of course, is the danger, and that is why the Med Jai had never used the curse before. They doom themselves as well as the individual they are cursing. If the accursed should be set free, he has the power to command the elements, bend the forces of nature to his will, bring down plague upon plague to his enemies. Because of that, the Med Jai are doomed to be forever vigilant, watching constantly to ensure that 'The Creature' is never awakened, never released."

All of the color had drained from Eliana's face by the time he had finished speaking. She was horrified at his words, horrified at what he had suffered, horrified to have been a part of anything so overtly evil. "That's what Ardeth called you—'The Creature,' she said, almost to herself. With an almost courtly nod, Imhotep inclined his head, accepting the moniker with another sadistic smile.

"But then, you mean…are you saying that you have all of those powers?" Her voice was barely more than a squeak.

He shook his head. "When you invoked the powers of the Scepter of Osiris to bring me out from the Pit, the curse was broken. I am mortal, with no special powers, save those I possessed when I was a man, three thousand years ago. The gods, however, have not finished with me yet." He was unsure why he was willing to tell her all this, but he could see no harm in it, either, so he continued. "According to the great god Amun-Re, I must still perform some duty for him before the curse will be lifted in its entirety, and I am allowed to finally enter the afterlife."

"Enter the afterlife? As in—die?" She was horrified, even more so than before. He spoke of dying as though it was something he wished for, lusted after. He threw her an amused look, although there was nothing humorous in the words that followed.

"You speak of death as though it is a curse itself, rather than a gift. I wonder if you would feel the same, had you been subjected to the same punishment. If you had felt the scarabs feasting on your undying flesh until it fell from you in strips, rotting from the bone, and still you could not die. Would you not lust for death even then?"

"Stop!" Eliana covered her ears, shaking her head at the nauseatingly gruesome picture he painted. "This is too much to believe. I can't believe it! I won't believe it!"

At that, he finally turned to her, spinning angrily to face her and gripping her shoulders with fingers that dug in deeply, painfully. "You cannot believe it? You will not?" He shook her once, clearly restraining himself from anything more violent. "It is not for you to believe or not to believe. It is the truth. Because of you, because I loved you—loved Anck-su-namun—because of that, I became the 'creature' the Med Jai guarded against for three thousand years! What you choose to believe or not believe is irrelevant to me—meaningless! There is finally some hope that after all these centuries, after all this misery, I can perhaps be free of this hideous curse. I _will_ complete this task for Amun-Re, and I _will_ choose death. It _will_ be over." With one last shake, he released her, and turned his back to her, his anger still visible in the tension of his shoulders, the stiffness of his posture.

She stared at him, taken aback at the vehemence of his words and the uncharacteristic lapse in his iron self-control. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Eliana was tired of saying the words, tired of how hopelessly futile they were, of how ridiculously inadequate they sounded. But to believe this story would require a leap of faith of gigantic proportions, and she didn't know if she was equipped for making such a leap. But if it was true, what on earth could they have done to deserve such punishment?

"Imhotep?" She couldn't blame him if he ignored her, but she had to ask.

"What do you want?" The reply was less than welcoming, but at least it was a reply.

"What did you—we—you and Anck-su-namun—do? What would make the Med Jai invoke such a horrible punishment?"

"What did we do?" The words came out in a laugh, one that held no humor at all. "We committed the most heinous crime that could be committed in our culture. We conspired, plotted, planned and committed regicide. We murdered Seti."

* * *

"What? _We killed the pharaoh?_ _Why_?" Eliana was appalled, sickened at the thought. 

He turned to look at her once more, and this time his expression was dispassionate, aloof. "This story is an old one, and I am tired of its telling. I have no wish to relive this yet again."

Eliana was not about to let this go, though. Uncaring that he flinched away from her touch, she grabbed his arm, clutching it with both hands, looking up at him with wide green eyes, eyes that reflected the revulsion and disbelief that she felt at his words. "_Please!_ You can't just leave it like this! I have to know what happened—_I have to!_" She was almost sobbing. "Isn't there _anything_ you can tell me about why you—she—we—would do such a thing? Isn't there anything you can do to make me remember it? All of it? Not just the bits and pieces, or the…the end?"

Imhotep looked down at her, at her fingers gripping his arm, and he stepped back, so that her hand fell away and the contact was broken. "The only way to restore the memories of your life as Anck-su-namun in their entirety would be to invoke the spells in the Book of the Dead, and that I cannot do. The Book is gone, lost when Ahm Shere sank beneath the earth seventy years ago. And even if the Book were in my possession, I would not use it. Anck-su-namun's _ba_ is gone, and I will not bring it back. Whatever is left of her is in you, in the _ka_ that you share."

Hot tears welled up in Eliana's eyes, and she turned, walking away from him, back into the cave. "So all that I am to know is whatever bits and pieces return to me in dreams, and the little you have told me?" She sounded lost, without hope, and something inside him twisted painfully, deeply, even as he viciously willed away the unwanted sentiment. "Answer me this, at least—what were we to each other in the past? I know that we were lovers—I remember that much." His heart lurched at the pain in her voice when she admitted the memory. "But was that all? What was I to you except that, and an accomplice in some hideous crime?"

Foolishly, Imhotep had thought that this woman had already hurt him as much as she possibly could. He had been wrong. Her carelessly chosen words, words that reduced their entire history to one of carnal desire and murderous violence, wounded him almost as much as her betrayal at Ahm Shere. He stared at her back, at the way she held her head down, at the defeated sag in her shoulders, and felt his chest constrict in pain, the ache radiating out from his heart to every other part of his body. Eliana barely heard his words, when he finally spoke, but they stopped her in her tracks.

"What were we to each other? I do not know, anymore, what I was to you. But you—you were my life, my heart. I loved you more than I thought it possible for a man to love a woman. I loved you more than life itself. You were everything to me." He ended on a whisper. "Everything."

Slowly, Eliana turned to face him. The sorrow in his eyes, the raw pain on his face, tore at her heart. Every instinct within her urged her to go to him, put her arms around him, take away his pain in some way. But she held herself back, some part of her warning her away, telling her that he would not welcome it if she were to approach him in that way. Instead, she lifted her chin, looked into his eyes, and once more, asked him to give her back the past.

"If I meant that to you, if I was all those things to you, then will you please, _please_ tell me the rest? Don't you understand? _I need to know_."

Imhotep sighed, recognizing a bit of the old Anck-su-namun in the stubborn set of her chin, the determined look in her eyes. He knew that she would not give up until he had told her the whole, sad history. Closing his eyes, steeling himself against the aching pain that the memories caused him, he began the tale.

* * *

The dancer had been introduced as one the Hittite merchant's slaves, a creature of unsurpassed loveliness and unrivaled grace—a true jewel of the desert. Bored, but doing his best to appear delighted at the prospect of watching the girl perform, Imhotep leaned back against the silk cushions, preparing himself for the spectacle. The girl was probably fat, clumsy and stupid. Although this was the last place on earth he wanted to be, he knew what was expected of him, as an envoy of Pharaoh Seti the First. He would sit through the interminably long exhibition, applaud politely, and be ready with insincere compliments and flattering lies as to the girl's rare beauty and exquisite charm after she gave the obligatory performance. 

Not for the first time, Imhotep regretted being persuaded to accompany Seti on this journey over the Sinai Peninsula into Syria. Why the Pharaoh had needed to bring along such a retinue of retainers and advisors on a simple journey, Imhotep would never understand. Seti's announced goal for the journey was to purchase some of the fine stallions raised here in the Syrian desert. His covert mission was to assess the military and political strength of his rivals. He could have accomplished that with a delegation one-fifth the size he had brought. But Seti enjoyed flaunting his supremacy, and bringing such a huge entourage with him made an irrefutable and impressive statement about the powers at his command.

At the last minute, Imhotep had tried to back out of the journey, but Seti would have none of it. Imhotep was a skilled diplomat, possessing an uncanny ability to see through other men's subterfuge and puffery. He had a gift for untangling the most convoluted knots of politics and intrigue, and seeing straight to the heart of an issue. Seti knew that about him, and valued it highly. This trip was important to the Pharaoh, to the legacy he hoped to build, and being able to accurately assess his adversaries' strengths and weaknesses was crucial to him. So Imhotep had come along.

Grimacing at the coarse manners and vulgar talk of the disheveled desert men that filled the large, lavishly appointed tent, Imhotep scanned the gathering. Although the tent was filled almost to capacity with laughing, festive men, Seti was nowhere to be seen. Imhotep was not surprised. Seti was no more interested in seeing the merchant parade his bevy of ugly but marriageable daughters in front of the Egyptians than was Imhotep, or in seeing the man's slave girls perform. But unlike Imhotep, Seti carried the rank to be able to escape from the distasteful duty. Instead, he had ordered Imhotep to stay behind, whispering to his newly appointed high priest and grand vizier that he would be out with the horse trainers, inspecting the stallions he hoped to procure. Impassively, Imhotep had nodded, although inside, he was seething. He had better things to do than sit here and watch this pathetic display…

A huge, ebony-skinned Nubian slave walked into the tent, somberly walking over to a large gong and striking it with a heavy wooden mallet. The reverberations echoed through the tent, almost instantly hushing the crowd, and dragging Imhotep's unwilling attention back to the evening's performance.

The portly Hittite merchant, their host for the evening, beamed with possessive pride as a wiry old servant, who looked ninety years old if he was a day, hobbled out, walking to the center of the tent, where the dancing would take place. In a voice that was surprisingly strong and deep to be coming from such a feeble-looking body, the old man announced the evening's star performer.

"Distinguished guests of Hattullis of Kadesh, most honored visitors from Egypt, may I present to you one of my lord's most prized possessions, whose beauty shines more brilliantly than the light of a thousand stars, whose grace is more poetic than a million songs, whose dancing leaves the gods to weep." With an elaborate flourish, the old man bent at the waist, sweeping his arm to the side in a courtly bow. Imhotep almost rolled his eyes, hoping that the frail old man wouldn't fall over on his face while trying to stand up again. Glancing towards the merchant again, Imhotep saw that the man's ruddy, jovial face was turned in his direction, looking at him as if to ask whether he was suitably impressed by the unfolding drama. Imhotep smiled politely, inclining his head in a small bow of acknowledgement, and then turned his attention back to the circular area in the center of the tent, stifling a yawn.

A drum began to beat slowly, rhythmically, and several more slaves circled the tent, extinguishing half of the torches. Smoke from the snuffed out lights billowed through the dimly lit tent, giving the place an almost otherworldly look. Next to the drummer, another musician began to pluck a stringed instrument, the melody soft, lilting, the music flowing through the air like silk over velvet and enveloping them all in its haunting spell.

A small figure entered the torch lit circle, entering from the rear of the tent. Her steps were so light and lithe that she almost appeared to float, an illusion that was enhanced by the many layers of scarves that swathed her body. Once the girl had reached the center of the circle, she stopped, her eyes downcast, her dark hair gleaming in the dim light, her arms at her sides. She seemed to be waiting…

Suddenly, the music altered, changing from the soft, melodic tune into one of almost primitive abandon, its rhythm pulsing and primal, and Imhotep watched, transfixed, as the girl came to life. Her dance was powerful, mesmerizing, a wordless tribute to the earth and the elements, the sun and the stars. She danced as though she were one with the entire universe, her limbs moving effortlessly, almost bonelessly, the movements themselves an erotic form of visual seduction. Imhotep shifted uncomfortably. The tent suddenly felt stiflingly hot, the air inside insufficient to fill his lungs. He was unable to tear his gaze away from the girl, who continued to twirl and weave around the circle, the scarves floating away one by one, to reveal ever more of her sinuous, supple body.

The boneless grace with which she moved, seeming to be all soft curves and flowing limbs, Imhotep knew to be a mesmerizing illusion, for the skill with which the girl danced revealed an athlete's dedication to training and endurance. Underneath all of that soft, silken skin would be well-built, powerful muscles, developed through years of conditioning and exercise. Although as she danced, the girl appeared to be every man's idea of the perfect woman, yielding and submissive, Imhotep knew that anyone who could perform with this degree of skill had the stamina and self-control of a warrior. And he was spellbound.

Every man in the room faced the center of the tent in rapt attention, silently watching as scarf after scarf fell to the ground, leaning forward in almost panting adoration as inch after inch of gleaming olive skin was revealed. Finally, with a flourish of drums, the girl cast off the last scarf, and let her nearly naked body crumble slowly, elegantly to the floor, ending the performance.

The applause was thunderous, but Imhotep did not join in the raucous noise. Instead, he sat silently, rapt, unable to look away as the girl finally moved, lifting herself effortlessly from the floor, standing once more in the center of the tent, the light glistening off her skin. Her head was bowed subserviently, modestly, but as the applause continued, she lifted it slowly, until her chin was tilted slightly upwards, staring at the crowd of lusty, clapping men in almost contemptuous disdain. But her scorn was hidden well behind a beautiful face and lips that curved in a seductively enticing smile, and the men were well deceived. Except for Imhotep, who watched her with a smile of his own, and secretly applauded the girl for both her skillful performance and her mocking acceptance of the men's adulation.

From the back of the room, another watched as well. He, too, had noted the lithe grace and supple poise of the girl's performance and he, too, had recognized the scorn in the girl's eyes as she stood before the crowd. He, like Imhotep, had been pleased to see it there, but for reasons that were less admirable. Unlike Imhotep, this man took pleasure in collecting rare treasures, and then bending and breaking them to his will. The more unattainable, the more difficult to possess, the better, the more satisfying his ultimate victory would be. He had just seen something unique, priceless, and he would have it. Nothing was beyond his command, nothing was beyond his reach. He would have the girl, and immensely enjoy wiping that condescending, scornful look from her eyes.

* * *

Imhotep walked towards his tent, enjoying the cool breeze that fanned his skin, admiring the brilliant light of the stars over head. There was nothing like the desert for reducing a man to his most essential nature. Its barren beauty and primal wildness called to him, reminding him of who he was, apart from the pomp and politics of Seti's court. It was a humbling experience, being out here in the midst of this vast panorama of earth and sky. Many of the men who had accompanied Seti on this trip considered the desert an arid wasteland, speaking contemptuously of the flat, windswept sands, missing the cool green of the Nile River valley. Imhotep knew that it was otherwise, knew that the hot sands of Syria cloaked and disguised a seething cauldron of life that bubbled and fermented just beneath the surface. The desert was alive, pulsing with energy and vitality, and simply being here among it all was a spiritual experience. 

He had almost reached the comfortable tent he had been given, when a peal of feminine laughter reached his ears. It was a light, musical sound, drifting to him on the night, the clear, pure tones striking his ear like the sound of rain on the tiles of the temple courtyard. He turned towards the sound, drawn to it, pulled to its source as surely as the tide answers the call of the moon.

The young women were congregated at the well, giggling and laughing as they gathered water, teasing each other and talking among themselves. Imhotep smiled at the sight, slowing his footsteps, then stopping altogether and beginning to back away so as not to frighten them. Some sound, some movement gave him away, though, and one of the girls looked up. Seeing the tall, handsome priest watching them from the shadows, she let out a startled shriek, and the girls scattered into the night, disappearing amid a flurry of legs and arms, dresses and veils. All save one.

Imhotep's breath caught in his throat as he recognized the girl who had danced for them earlier in the evening. As he stood there, unmoving, watching her, he saw her chin tilt up and her jaw jut forward in defiance. She stared at him with eyes so dark they were almost black, and in those eyes he saw rebelliousness, distrust, and an almost palpable challenge. She tossed her head back and her long, silky hair fanned out over her shoulder, its glossy thickness daring a man to run his hands through it, tangle his fingers in its length…

He cleared his throat, casting aside those thoughts, and stepped forward into the light, towards her, but not so close as to appear a threat. Despite her bravado, he could see that she was frightened of him, and he had no wish to drive her away. Trying to reassure, he held his hands out, palms forward, in a gesture that he hoped communicated his harmlessness. "Forgive me, please. I did not mean to startle you." He spoke in the Hittite dialect, one of the many languages at his command. Surprisingly, she answered him in Egyptian, the grammar and vocabulary correct, the accent perfect. Another revelation.

"You did not startle me. You may have frightened off those meek fools, but I am not afraid of any man." Her voice was low, husky, and sounded incredibly seductive, even when she was issuing a clear challenge. Imhotep walked closer, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Any man would be well advised to approach you with caution. There is more to you than meets the eye, I think." He reached the well, leaning back against the hip-high stone structure. "You do not mind if I join you, then?"

The challenge in her eyes had not abated, but the fear had faded somewhat. "Do as you will. I am almost done here." Her words were careless, indifferent, and as she spoke, she continued gathering water, pouring it from the well bucket into several clay jars. Imhotep watched her as she worked, noting again the inherent grace of her movements, the unconscious seductiveness of her bearing, even in a task so mundane as gathering water from a well.

"Your dance tonight was…inspiring." He was quite sure it had _inspired_ most of the men in the room. He was equally sure that she knew it had, as well.

"It does not take much effort to…_inspire_…in such a way," she replied, looking up at him in obvious contempt. So she had picked up on the double meaning of his words. Imhotep was pleased, delighted with the girl's obvious spirit. It was a rare quality in a female, doubly so in one who was considered a slave. But Imhotep doubted that this girl had acted like a slave even once in her life.

He nodded, accepting her judgment on the men who had watched her that evening. "You are right, of course. It is relatively easy to arouse men's…interest." Again, the play on words, purposely intended to provoke her. "But then, your dance was more than that, was it not? You perform with a skill and athleticism uncommon to most dancers." This was the truth, and he gladly paid her the compliment.

"Thank you." Her voice faltered, as though she was unsure of whether or not this had been a compliment or not, as though she was unused to being paid compliments in the first place.

He waved off the thanks. "There is no need. I simply made an observation. You have been trained in more than just dance, have you not? Your movements this evening had a look of the East about them, a look of some of the more graceful forms of combat." He watched her reaction to his words, a measuring look in his eyes. "Indeed, I wonder what it would be like if you danced with weapons instead of scarves? A most deadly entertainment, I suspect."

Her eyes shot to his face, startled. _How had he picked up on the motions and movements underlying her performance? _Most men simply watched her body as it writhed and flowed through the dance, oblivious to the skill or concentration required in executing the precise movements. This man had obviously watched the art beneath the surface, as well. "You know the Eastern arts, then?"

He inclined his head. "I have seen combatants face each other in such a way, yes." He watched her as she absorbed this information, her eyes never leaving his face. "I am curious, though, how you came to be trained in such skills."

Her face took on that defiant cast again. "I was tutored by a master in the art, one who traveled through this area and stopped to deal with Hattullis. I saw him practicing his art early one morning, and I asked him to train me. He was only with us for several months, but he was able to teach me bits of his skills, and I have continued the training on my own, improvising where necessary."

"I am surprised that Hattullis agreed to this," Imhotep observed. Women in this region, especially slaves, were not encouraged to progress beyond what was considered their station in life. Essentially, that meant a life of subservience and submission to their men—either their husbands or their masters.

"He did not know. The man from the East was…progressive in his thoughts. He saw no reason why one who was skilled enough to grasp the art could not be taught it, regardless of their gender. We met in secret, either in the early morning, or at night." She laughed. "The knowledge enhanced my dancing, as well. Hattullis was pleased. He did not question the source of the improvement."

Imhotep watched as she spoke, his eyes drinking in her beauty, his mind appreciating her wit and intelligence. What was a woman like this doing out here in the desert, under the thumb of a man like Hattullis? It did not make sense. She spoke Egyptian flawlessly, she was obviously intelligent, and she was unintimidated by men. Unusual traits, to say the least, for a Hittite woman.

"You are not Hittite, are you?" It was more a statement than an actual question, and Imhotep was not surprised when she answered in the negative.

"No. I was born in Egypt. Thebes." Although hearing that she was Egyptian was not particularly astonishing, that she had been born in Thebes itself _was _startling and she must have sensed that, for she continued the explanation. "My father was a merchant. Not very successful, but a good man. He and my mother died when I was eight years old, and I went to live with my mother's brother, farther north along the Nile. He had no use for another child, so he took me away and sold me to a passing trader just before my ninth birthday." Her voice was blank, expressionless. "I believe he received two camels in trade. Several months later, that man sold me to Hattullis."

He would have said something, made some gesture of sympathy, but Imhotep sensed that by doing so he would offend the girl's fierce pride. So he said nothing, simply watching her as she continued to talk.

"I have been here for ten years, now. So long that I scarcely remember Egypt." She looked at him, but her eyes were far away, remembering. "Tell me—is the Nile still as blue? Are the valleys near the river still as green and fertile? Is the city still as magnificent? Sometimes…" She stopped, and her eyes fell. "Sometimes I wonder if my childhood in Egypt was a dream, something that I conjured up during my early days here simply to stay sane."

"Egypt is beautiful, as always. The Nile still as blue, Thebes still as glorious." He watched her as she sat, drinking in his words. "But this land is not without its own kind of beauty. It is wild, free…"

"_It_ may be free, but _I_ am not," her voice was bitter. "This land will always represent captivity to me, and I will be happy when I can turn my back on it for all time."

"There are those who would say the same of Egypt, and happily return from there to here." His voice was mild, unchallenging, but she reacted as if he had slapped her.

"Then let them return here, to the sand, and the scorpions, and the endless, flat horizon." There was fire in her eyes, burning hot and angry, and he was struck anew at how breathtaking she was. She was like a living flame, trapped in a glass cage, and he wondered what she would do, were she to suddenly find herself free, able to go anywhere, be anything she wanted.

"Is your life here so harsh, then?"

"My life here is drudgery, servitude. Hattullis is not an evil man, and I am not mistreated, but there is so much more that I want from life…" The wistfulness in her voice, the yearning he heard there, spoke to his heart, and he would have given much to be able to offer her hope, but there was none.

"Tell me—if you were free, what would you do? Where would you go?"

Her answer was immediate. She had obviously given this much thought already. "I would return to Egypt. I would find a way to gain an education, train more in the Eastern arts. Perhaps enter one of the temples as a novitiate. I understand that the priestesses of Isis are learned women, educated and resourceful. They are not dependent upon any man."

He had dealt with those women himself, and Imhotep had to agree. In fact, remembering some of his recent dealings with the High Priestess, he had to very much agree. The woman was near seventy years old, had a razor-sharp intellect, and a tongue that was just as sharp. If ever a woman was not dependent upon anyone, man or woman, it was she. He laughed. "You would find the priestesses much to your liking, I think. Worthy role models."

She watched him, unsure as to whether or not he was teasing or serious. He saw her uncertainty, and reached over, taking her hand in his. "That was meant in all sincerity. You are just as intelligent, just as gifted, as any of the priestesses in Isis' temple. You would make a worthy novitiate." He watched her intently, the brown of his eyes locked on the almost black of hers, and at that moment, something fluttered into being between them. It was small, new, tentative, but very real, and it left them both a bit breathless, shaken. The girl pulled slightly away, hesitant, but as she realized there was no danger in his light hold, she relaxed, allowing him to hold her hand in his, run his thumb over the smooth skin, caress her palm in a slow, rhythmic massage. It was the lightest of touches, on the surface almost completely innocent, but the simple gesture communicated much more.

They were silent, the priest leaning back against the well, the girl standing in front of him, her hand in his, their eyes locked on each other. The moment lasted only seconds, but each second was an eternity, and each instant of that eternity served to reinforce the inexplicable connection that had formed between them. He stared at her, transfixed by her beauty, warmed by the fire inherent to her nature, and gave in to the spell of the night, and the moonlight, and the woman before him. It was an intoxicating combination, and he was powerless to resist its heady compulsion. With the lightest of pressure on her hand, he pulled her towards him, and she took a hesitant step forward, staring at his eyes, his face, his mouth. Her eyes widened, her breath came faster, her lips parted, and the distance between them evaporated.

A girl's high pitched yell shattered the moment. "Anck-su-namun! Where are you? Where is the water?" They heard the sound of footsteps approaching, and the girl sprang back, a panicked look on her face.

"I must go." She hesitated, then pulled her hand from his and reached out tentatively, shyly, and traced a path in the air in front of his face, almost as if she would touch him in a caress, but was afraid to, somehow. The innocent gesture, though, hung in the air between them, shimmering, erotic, more powerful, almost, than a physical touch, and he closed his eyes as he felt its impact deep in his soul. Something in him had changed, and would never be the same again. From the look in her eyes, it was the same for her.

Then the moment was gone, and she was picking up the full jugs of water, balancing them expertly, gracefully. She gave him a small smile, and turned to go. Suddenly, he was desperate to keep her there, unwilling to see her walk away.

"Wait—before you leave—what is your name?" It was amazing that he had talked with the girl for this long, felt such a powerful connection with her, and had yet to learn her name. In the overall scale of things, mere names had not seemed so important.

She smiled at him, an almost shy smile, but it went straight to his heart, planting itself there and sending out roots that went deep. "Anck-su-namun. My name is Anck-su-namun." Smiling again, she turned and ran off into the darkness. Imhotep watched until he could no longer see her shadow moving through the darkness, or hear the sound of her footsteps. Then he, too, moved away from the well, heading for his original destination.

But as he walked through the cool night air towards his tent, he couldn't help but notice the change. Compared to the spell of light and enchantment woven by the girl, the desert was suddenly a less magical place, and some of the brightness seemed to have faded from the stars overhead.

The next day, Seti announced that his objectives had been met, and that they would return to Egypt before nightfall. Of the girl, there was no sign, and Imhotep was unable to find her before they left. By evening, the tents of Hattullis' clan were miles behind them, lost in the shimmering heat waves that rose from the desert sands.

* * *

Imhotep walked briskly from the palace towards the temple, his silver trimmed black robe billowing out behind him, a frown marring his countenance. He didn't pause to admire the royal gardens, or to appreciate the morning sunlight glinting off the Nile's blue waters. His mind was on other things, matters of the temple, issues relating to the coming harvest celebration. He was busy, and glad of it, for when his mind was occupied, it had less time to stray to other, more distracting thoughts. 

Weeks had passed. The Syrian delegation had returned to Egypt, and life had gone on, much as before. Imhotep was kept busy with the affairs of the temple, and his duties as vizier to Seti. He had little time to think, less time to ponder, but even so, memories of the girl crossed his mind with alarming frequency. Most often, they would come upon him late at night, as he lay in his chambers, alone, or when he wandered in the temple gardens in the evening. He tried to push them away, relegate them to the shadows of the past, where they belonged, but found that he could not do so. The few moments he had spent with her, the minutes he had spent watching her dance, seemed to have made an indelible impression on his mind, and he was powerless to erase them. So he allowed the memories to linger, not fighting against them, simply letting them exist as they would, and with the passage of days and weeks, the details had faded, and the whole incident took on an almost dream-like quality. Imhotep began to wonder if he had imagined the girl, and their conversation, and the hold she seemed to have on his heart.

He had almost reached the gate leading to the temple courtyard when he heard the commotion coming from the main square. A shout, followed by a man's loud grunt, and then the unmistakable sound of a slap. This last noise was followed by a long moment of silence, and Imhotep had almost turned to continue through the gate, when the barrage of cursing reached his ears. That someone should be cursing in the main square was not in itself remarkable—Thebes was a large, busy city, the political and cultural capital of Egypt—and many people of all walks of life frequented its streets. No, what made this cursing unique was that the diatribe was an odd combination of Egyptian and the Hittite dialect, and that a female was giving voice to it. And that captured the priest's attention.

Imhotep spun around, only managing by sheer force of will to hold himself back from racing towards the small crowd of people gathering around the source of the commotion. As he approached, a deliberately stern look on his face, the swarm of onlookers disbursed, casting nervous glances in his direction, their fear of unnecessarily drawing the attention of the High Priest of Osiris apparently overpowering their curiosity. He reached the center of the commotion without delay, and quickly assessed the situation.

A half dozen of the palace guard stood in disarray, surrounding a small form crumpled on the ground, holding a hand to her reddening cheek, the tears running down her face in odd juxtaposition to the stream of invective pouring from her mouth. The guard she was at the moment condemning in two languages to a long, torturous death followed by an eternity in hell shifted nervously from foot to foot, obviously unsure of how to handle this situation. Another of the men was off to the side, hopping on one foot and clutching his groin, in obvious pain. It was laughably obvious what had happened, and Imhotep would have found the circumstances funny, had the woman not at that moment looked up and saw him, staring him full in the face, her dark brown eyes widening in shock. Her mouth was still open, but the cursing stopped immediately, and no sound at all came from between those perfect lips. She looked like she had been frozen in place, part of some grotesque tableau.

Imhotep caught his breath as he recognized her, but was careful to keep any sign of that recognition from his face. Thankfully, except for that first, brief moment, he saw that she, too, hid any sign that she knew him. At this moment, that knowledge would do neither of them any good.

He folded his hands behind his back, purposely keeping a cool, regal look on his face as he turned to the ranking officer. The guard, still disconcerted from the situation with the girl, now found himself eye-to-eye with the high priest, the second most powerful man in Egypt, and almost visibly stifled a groan. Imhotep glared at him for several seconds more, intentionally trying to intimidate the man. When he spoke, his words were cold, haughty.

"What in the name of the gods is the meaning of this? Have you no respect for the sanctity of the temples you are near?"

The guard visibly winced, bowing low, almost groveling before the tall, dark-robed figure of the high priest. "Lord Imhotep, I most humbly apologize for the disturbance." He threw a glance at the now silent girl. "Please believe me, it will not happen again."

Imhotep continued to glare at him. "What are you doing with this woman? Where are you taking her, that she is driven to such…outbursts?"

The guard shot a venomous glance at the girl. "My lord, we are delivering her to Pharaoh Seti. She has just been delivered by the Hittite merchant who sold her to him." Only through sheer willpower was Imhotep able to conceal his shock, but at the guard's words, his whole body had gone icy cold. Still, his outward demeanor reflected nothing of his inner turmoil, and he raised a questioning eyebrow at the guard.

"She does not appear to be at all pleased to have been the Pharaoh's latest acquisition." Again, the guard gave her an evil glare.

"The girl is unbalanced, if you ask me. No sooner had the merchant delivered her to us and driven off, than she turned into a wildcat, screaming and raging, and…" He glanced at his comrade, who was still clutching himself, moaning. "And kicking. She nearly cost Asim, here, his future children. I…I slapped her, my lord, but only to prevent her from doing him any further injury. It will not happen again, I assure you."

"You slapped her?" Imhotep spoke slowly, deliberately. "She belongs to the Pharaoh, and you dared to strike her?" The man cringed. "You know what the penalty is for such an offense, do you not?" The man obviously had a very good idea, as he nodded miserably, and stood, silent, as the priest spared him another scathing glance, and then looked down at the girl. "You." Gods, how he hated speaking to her like this, but he had no choice, none at all. "Stand up."

Silently, slowly, she stood, her eyes never leaving his. He kept his hands behind his back, even though he ached to help her to her feet, pull her into his embrace, offer her some comfort. "What is your version of this tale, woman?"

She met his gaze with her own, unfaltering, unafraid. The only thing that betrayed her was a slight tremble to her chin. Her voice, when she spoke, was steady, the tone as cool as his own. "It is as they say."

"You have been sold to Pharaoh Seti? You are to be his…" He could not bring himself to conjecture what she might be, so he left the question unfinished. The girl filled in the blank herself, seeming to interrupt him, much to the guards' gaping disbelief.

"As I understand it," she explained, her tone bitter, filled with derision, "I am to be his whore." Imhotep winced at the raw term, this time not caring if the guards saw his reaction.

"He has taken you as his concubine?" The official term was a euphemism, a prettier name for what was essentially the same thing, and Imhotep knew that the girl was well aware of that.

"He has _bought_ me for such purpose." Again, bitterness filled her voice. "He has yet to _take_ me."

Imhotep watched her, carefully trying to weigh how far he could go in trying to help her. He gave the guards a measuring look, then turned to the captain. "I wish to speak with her. Alone. Perhaps I can offer some…spiritual guidance…that will convince her of the inappropriateness of her actions, and her…" he almost choked on the next words, but the guards seemed not to notice. "And her good fortune in being chosen by the Pharaoh." He waited, as the captain warily nodded, but stood unmoving, clearly unconvinced that the priest could handle the hellion standing before him. Again, Imhotep raised an eyebrow, and the captain of the guard took the hint, backing off immediately and signaling the others to do the same. Imhotep waited until they were out of earshot to speak.

"Are you hurt?" His voice, cool before, detached, now reflected his concern.

She shook her head, her eyes huge in a face gone pale, except for the red mark where the guard had struck her.

"Hattullis sold you to Seti?" Imhotep balked at using the man's title, and the girl seemed to understand the significance. For the first time, her eyes mirrored a glimmer of hope.

She nodded, and her thick, ebony hair swung over her shoulders, glinting blue-black in the hot sunlight. He tried, in vain, not to notice.

"When did this happen?"

"The arrangements were made the morning you left. The pharaoh—Seti—was apparently much taken with my performance the evening before. Before you left, he and Hattullis came to an…understanding." The bitterness was back in her voice. "My price has gone up. I understand Hattullis was paid in gold, not in camels."

Imhotep's heart was being torn in two, and yet he could do nothing, absolutely nothing, to right this situation. If it had been any other man, he could have intervened, bought her himself, matched almost any price, set her free. But she had been delivered into the hands of the one man he was powerless against…

"I am sorry." The words sounded hollow to him—he couldn't imagine what they sounded like to her. "If I could help you, I would…"

She stepped forward then, and the hope was back in her eyes. "But can you not help me? You seem to be a powerful man in your own right. Is there nothing you can do?" As she spoke, she reached out, as if to grasp his arm. Imhotep steeled himself against her reaction, and stepped away before she could touch him. If she belonged to Seti, he could not even touch her, or allow her to touch him, without fear of bringing death to them both. His abrupt rejection stopped her instantly, and her hand dropped to her side, her eyes falling to the ground as well.

"I am sorry," he repeated. "If it were anyone but the pharaoh, I would do anything within my power to help you. I would buy you myself, set you free…" He stopped, unwilling to torment either of them any further with the hopeless wishing. "I can do nothing."

She looked up at him, then, and there were tears in her eyes, although she attempted to laugh. "I told you that I would return to Egypt one day, did I not?"

He ignored the reference to their last meeting. It had no meaning here, could offer no comfort. The best he could offer her was a weak reassurance. "The palace is beautiful, and you will be well provided for, all your needs fulfilled." Save her burning need for freedom. "You will not be treated as a servant—there will be no expectations of you…" He stopped, unable to go on. What _would_ be expected of her, though unsaid, hung in the air between them, looming large as a mountain.

When she finally looked up, her features were composed, and there was no more pleading in her eyes. The hope was gone, as well. The fight, the rebellion, had left her, replaced by a serene calmness that was somehow even more disturbing. Her last words to him, before she turned and walked back to the waiting guards, rang in his ears long after they had taken her away to the palace.

"A slave is still a slave, no matter the name. And a cage is still a cage, no matter how gilded."

He stared bleakly after them, filled with a helpless, hopeless rage. So Seti had acquired a new toy. Imhotep considered the pharaoh, a man he knew well, and reflected on his childish temperament, his frequent fits of rage, his selfish possessiveness. He recalled all this, and wondered despairingly how long it would take for Seti to break this toy before moving on to the next one.

* * *

It took less time than even he would have expected. 

She was brought to the temple the next week, delivered by a frowning Med Jai into the hands of Kamuzu, the chief healer among the priests. The injuries were not life-threatening—several cracked ribs, contusions to the face and arms, and assorted bruises—but they were painful, and the ribs, at least, needed to be bound. The Med Jai was not pleased when the healer informed him that the girl would need to stay at the temple for at least a day, so they could monitor her for any signs of internal injury, but at the old man's insistence, he finally agreed, and brought word of her confinement back to Seti.

She had been there for several hours already before Imhotep learned of her presence, and her injuries had already been tended. He found her with the old priest in a small chamber at the back of the temple, one of several rooms reserved for such cases. He entered in a swirl of black, and his face had the look of a thundercloud.

"What has happened?" Unruffled, the old man looked up at Imhotep, his eyes steady as he took in the younger man's stormy demeanor. Slowly, stiffly, he got to his feet and approached the high priest.

"The girl did not please Pharaoh Seti, my lord. He saw fit to…reprimand her." His opinion of Seti was obvious from the distaste in his voice when he spoke the man's name. Seti's other women had all made their way through these chambers, at one time or another, until they learned how to avoid his temper.

Imhotep's face reflected his concern. "Will she recover?"

"The injuries were not serious, my lord, but they were painful. She will be with us for at least one night, so we can be sure that no other harm was done." As he spoke, the old man carefully pulled up the light blanket around her, gently tucking it around her body. He was a kindly man, well suited to the healing profession, and Imhotep was glad that Anck-su-namun had been delivered into his hands. His eyes had scarcely left her since he had entered the room, but now he turned to the old priest, and his voice was gentle.

"Leave us, Kamuzu." His eyes flicked back to the girl. "I wish to speak to her."

The old man hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with leaving the two alone. That the Med Jai had left Seti's woman alone with him was one thing—he was eighty years old, and was clearly no threat to her or her virtue. Imhotep, however, was a much different matter—he was young, handsome, and his emotions were obviously entangled in this matter, somehow. Still, he was the high priest, and as such, commanded obedience. "Are you sure that is wise, my lord?" That was the furthest the old man would go, by way of objecting.

"I am not at all sure, Kamuzu," Imhotep answered him, honestly. "But it is a risk I am willing to take. I would speak with her alone, please." He spoke to the old man respectfully, with the deference due the man's advanced age and great experience, and the old priest finally nodded.

"I will be just outside, if you have need," he said, and then left, quietly closing the door behind him.

Imhotep was at her side immediately. "What has he done to you?" He knelt by the bed, taking her hand in his, not caring if he was forbidden to touch her. His only concern at the moment was her, and the injuries done her by Seti.

She managed a weak smile. "Nothing I did not expect. I did not imagine that a pharaoh would take kindly to his attentions being…rebuffed." Imhotep would have guessed as much, and her words did not surprise him.

"Anck-su-namun, you must listen to me. I know Seti. I have known him for a long time. He is a dangerous man for you to cross." As he spoke, he lightly stroked her hand, his fingers seemingly unable to stop caressing hers, his eyes devouring her face. "I wish to the gods that there was something I could do to help you, but there is not. There is no other way for you to avoid his wrath. All that my priests and I can do is repair whatever damage Seti chooses to inflict. We cannot stop him from inflicting it."

"What are you saying?" Her eyes narrowed to slits, the dark brown irises appearing almost black in the dim light of the room. "That I should submit to him?" In case there was any chance of him not understanding what she meant, she continued, spelling it out in graphic detail. "You want me to lie submissively beneath him, while he uses me like a rutting boar? Until he spends himself within me, slaking his lust with my body? You wish me, perhaps, to _welcome_ him in that way? That is what you wish me to do?"

Imhotep went pale, the crude picture she drew with her words nauseating him with its sickening detail. For a moment, he couldn't speak, and simply stared at her. Finally, he spoke. "No. That is not what I _want_. That is as far from what I _want_ as the east is from the west." He stopped, drawing a breath, looking down at the ivory blanket covering her bruised body, and in a moment of pure insight, realized that he was at a crossroads in his life. Whatever happened in this moment, whatever path he chose, would mean that his life ever after was irrevocably changed, its course altered forever. For a second, no more, his sense of self-preservation fought a losing battle with his heart, and in the end, gladly submitted to the loss. When he met her eyes again, he shielded nothing from her, deliberately allowing her to see the full extent of the emotions raging in him, to see into his soul. "What I _want_ is completely meaningless," he continued, his voice bleak. "What _matters_ is what you must do to simply survive."

She said nothing, her eyes locked on his, her face pale, her lips trembling.

He began again, trying to make her understand. "Seti _owns_ you, Anck-su-namun. There is nothing that I, or anyone else, can do to change that fact. It is not right, it is not fair, but it is the truth, and it is inescapable. In one way or another, he owns us all. His is the ultimate power in Egypt, do you not understand? With a look, a word, he has the power to destroy us all—you, me, anyone who crosses him. I _cannot_ help you in this. You must do it yourself—you either choose to live, and accept what that brings with it, or you choose to anger Seti until he eventually tires of the game, and destroys you. It will happen, believe me. It has happened before." He saw the fear in her eyes, the disgusted revulsion for the choice she had to make, and he was sickened by it. Still, he had to help her survive this, in whatever way he could. Gently, he put his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face up towards his, refusing to let her turn away from him. He could see the shame she felt for what she must do to survive, and he would not let her turn this against herself, would not let her turn her revulsion inwards until it festered into a bitter self-loathing.

"There is no shame in this Anck-su-namun. We all do what we must to survive. There is no shame, do you hear me?" He could see the tears fill her eyes—huge, shining drops that spilled from the corners and streamed down her cheeks.

"You are saying that if I do this, if I…submit, I will not be his whore?" The tears continued to flow, and every drop was like a spear in his heart.

"You are no man's whore, Anck-su-namun. You are a strong, intelligent woman who will refuse to let circumstances, no matter how horrible, overpower you. You are a woman who will do what she must to survive, and be stronger for it. There is no shame in that."

She watched him for a long time, staring silently into his eyes, as if she were trying, somehow, to look within his very mind to gauge the sincerity of his words. Finally, she heaved a shuddering sigh, and wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. When she looked at him again, he saw that she had made her decision. She confirmed it with her next words.

"I will live, if only to await the day when I can finally have my revenge on him." Had he not felt so miserable, Imhotep would have smiled at her ferocity. As it was, all he could manage was to grip her hand more tightly with his own, willing some of his strength into her.

"When must I leave here?" She asked the question hesitantly, not really wanting to hear the answer, and when he told her, he could see her unhappiness. For all that she had made her decision, it was not one that she looked forward to carrying out. Imhotep sighed, frustrated that he could do so little. He wished he could keep her there longer, somehow—give her a refuge of some sort. But the Temple of Osiris was not that sort of refuge. If only…

Suddenly, he had the answer. He could not deliver her from her fate, perhaps, but maybe in the end, he could give her a place to retreat to when she needed to escape from it, if even for an hour. There was a refuge he could offer, after all.

"Do you remember the Temple of Isis, Anck-su-namun? Were you ever taken there as a child?"

She nodded, clearly unsure where this was going.

"When you are healed, I want you to go there. Tell the women who look after you that you are going there to learn more about the goddess, to assimilate yourself more fully into our culture. Tell them that you do this to please the Pharaoh. Tell _him_ that, if you must. He will not care. As long as you do not cross him, he will not question your sudden interest in spiritual growth." Imhotep held back a grimace. If Seti thought she did it to please him, he would probably encourage it. The man was entirely too predictable in his narcissism. "Once you are there, ask for the high priestess. She is an old woman, and has held her position for many years. She is direct, blunt to the point of rudeness, and she harbors no love for the dull-witted or stupid. Her wits are sharp, and her tongue even sharper. But she is kind, and she is discreet." He smiled, recalling some of his dealings with the woman. On more than one occasion, he had come out the worst in such altercations. Still, he respected her, valued her opinion, and most importantly, he trusted her implicitly. And he knew that she harbored no love for Seti. Seti was notorious in his slighting of the goddess she served, overlooking her temple and her priestesses again and again, instead heaping adulation on Osiris and Amun-Re, the masculine deities. No, the servants of Isis bore Seti no special love.

"I will speak to her, so that she will know you when you come to her."

"I can do all this," she said, a puzzled frown on her face, "but what end will it serve? What good will this do?"

"I cannot keep you from your fate," Imhotep said, and as he spoke, he lifted his hand, brushing her hair back from her face. "But I will do what I can to make it bearable for you. There is a place," he explained, "between the temples of Isis and Osiris—a secluded place, accessible only via a hidden passageway between the two buildings. It is a meditation chamber, surrounded by a small courtyard, which is reserved for the exclusive use of the high priest and priestess of the two temples. Only we, and the temple caretakers, know of its existence. Only we are allowed its use." He himself used the place infrequently at best, preferring his meditation chamber in the temple proper, but it was there, and it might finally be of use to him.

"It is a beautiful spot, the gardens within well tended and peaceful. If she is willing," he continued, "and I believe she will be, the priestess can show you how to find the tunnel from within her temple."

"And you would give me access to this place? Allow me to escape to it at times?" She anticipated his offer, reading his thoughts with an ease that should have troubled him.

"I can do so little for you, Anck-su-namun. All I can offer you is a small refuge, a place you can visit briefly to find some peace when you need it most. A place where you can go and be free, if only for an hour or two." He shook his head, and sorrow filled his eyes. "I only wish I could do more."

"It is enough. It is more than enough. I will go there, and I thank you." She tilted her head to the side, her eyes not leaving his. "But why, I wonder? Why would you do this?"

He was not sure of that answer himself, and he stood, avoiding her eyes, avoiding the question itself. Gently, he released her hand, placing it carefully on the bed at her side. Some impulse, some compulsion, though, made him crouch down beside her once again, and she watched as his hand traced a gesture in the air over her face—the same gesture she had made weeks before, when they had first met. For a long moment they watched each other, not speaking, the silence serving to deepen their growing bond. Finally, Imhotep stood again, and this time, he made it to the door.

"Rest, Anck-su-namun, rest and heal. For now, you are safe. Nothing will harm you here."

She smiled at him and closed her eyes, burrowing more deeply into the soft mattress. He left, then, walking out the door, signaling to the nervously pacing old priest that he could once again see to his patient. As the heavy door closed behind the healer, Imhotep shuddered, and although he was no seer, he felt a ghostly premonition flit through him. A part of him had stayed behind with the girl in that room, and he left it with her gladly. He was unsure what had passed between them there, but whatever it was, it had changed him, marked him forever.

Whether that change was for the good or ill, only time would tell.

* * *

They managed to keep her in the temple for two more days, until Seti's Med Jai guards angrily waved the priests aside and took her with them. She did not protest, going with them willingly, stopping only for a brief moment to thank the kindly old priest who had tended her injuries. He patted her hand, a worried look on his face, and his voice was gruff as he wished her well. 

"Go now, my lady, and be well. May mighty Osiris watch over you, may the goddess Isis be with you, and may the glory of Amun-Re light your path. Be well."

The leader of the Med Jai, impatient with this display, cleared his throat, signaling to her that her time here was unquestionably at an end. With one last, sad smile at the old man, she turned and went meekly with the men. Within moments, they were gone, the temple courtyard echoing with the sounds of their passing.

* * *

A week later, Anck-su-namun entered the temple of Isis, her lithe body draped in a concealing robe, her face and hair swathed in scarves. At her entrance, one of the temple novitiates approached her, recognizing her from her clothing as a resident of the palace, offering to be of any service she could in matters of worshipping the goddess. Anck-su-namun thanked her, and quietly asked to be taken to the high priestess. 

"I have a weighty spiritual matter to discuss with her." The novitiate, although surprised at this request, nodded, backing away and going in search of the old woman. Occasionally, the high priestess deemed to meet with members of Seti's court, on matters pertaining to the goddess, and the young girl assumed that this must be one of those instances.

While she waited, Anck-su-namun roamed through the common area of the temple, admiring the magnificent building, the well-tended grounds, the lovingly sculpted statues of the goddess, the painted murals depicting scenes from Egyptian myth and religious lore. It was a beautiful temple, gracious and filled with light. In contrast, the temple of Osiris was stark and plain, majestic rather than beautiful. Even here, in the common area, Anck-su-namun could feel a certain peace flowing through her, seeping into her pores and slowly working its way through her body. If only…

"So. You are Anck-su-namun, Seti's concubine." The gruff voice came from just behind her, making her jump in fright. She had not even heard the old woman approach, so silent were her footsteps.

"I am. And you are the high priestess?" Anck-su-namun spoke with deference, but refused to be cowed by the intimidating old woman. Her voice, respectful but cool, was reflected in her bearing, as well.

"I am Mukarramma, High Priestess of Isis." The old woman's eyes were like those of a bird of prey—sharp, intelligent, missing nothing. She took in the regal stance with which the girl held herself, the cool grace with which she spoke, the stunning beauty that the concealing clothing did little to disguise, and she smiled. So this was the girl that Imhotep was willing to risk so much over. "You are welcome in the temple. Come."

Turning, the old woman led the way through the common area, walking at a leisurely pace, but with purpose. Anck-su-namun followed, silent, carefully noting when and where they turned from the large hallway, making sure to carefully observe her surroundings. Once they had turned down a secondary hallway, the old woman stopped, and once again spoke.

"You know where we are going?" Her beady eyes watched closely as Anck-su-namun nodded. "Good. Imhotep has asked me to allow you access to the area reserved for us alone. Although I have reservations, I will do so, as a favor to him, and because I sense you have great need for such a place." She watched as Anck-su-namun again inclined her head.

"I am grateful, my lady." Although her head was bowed respectfully, her eyes lowered, her tone respectful, again Mukarramma could sense no subservience in the girl's voice, and she was strangely pleased. The old woman had grown weary, over her many years in service to the goddess, of the endless bowing and scraping that was offered her by others. She had no use for it, grew impatient with it, and cared little for those who groveled. But this girl had spirit, and the old woman felt herself warming to her.

"I wonder, girl, if Imhotep told you also that I have been gifted by the goddess with the sight?" Anck-su-namun looked up at that, shaking her head, curious as to what the old woman meant.

"You mean that you are able to see into the future? Sense what is yet to come?" She had heard of people possessing such powers, and she was intrigued.

"I can." The priestess nodded, then continued with an explanation. "The images I see often do not form a complete picture, but I am sometimes able to see a pattern in the images that offer insight into the road ahead." The old woman stared at her, not sure why, but feeling compelled, for some reason, to reach out and take the younger woman's hand. "If you would allow me to, I would attempt to read your aura in such a way. There is something I sense…" Her words trailed off. Anck-su-namun didn't hesitate for a moment, simply placing her hand in the old woman's wrinkled, claw-like one. At the contact, the old woman let out an audible gasp, closing her eyes to the images that flooded her mind. Anck-su-namun felt nothing but the cold, withered fingers closing over hers.

For an endless moment, they stood there, frozen in the strangely intimate contact, the young woman watching curiously as the older one held her hand, swaying back and forth, eyes closed, face pinched, as the visions battered her from within. Finally, the high priestess' eyes opened, and she dropped her hand to her side, almost giving in to the urge to wipe it on her robe. Anck-su-namun stared at her, mystified at the old woman's sudden pallor, suddenly worried for her.

"My lady, are you all right? What came to you in this vision, to upset you so?" Her voice reflected her concern, and she reached out to help the old woman. Before she could touch her, though, the old woman stepped back, holding out a hand to ward her off.

"No. Do not touch me yet. Give me a moment." Anck-su-namun backed off immediately, waiting silently as the old woman composed herself. After several moments, she spoke.

"I am sorry. It is not often that the visions are so…vivid, so clear. It…" she paused, searching for the right word. "It startled me."

"But what did you see?" Anck-su-namun was curious, naturally, about what the old woman could tell her. She was disappointed when the priestess shook her head.

"There is much I could tell you, but I will not. It is better, sometimes, to not know what the future will hold, lest you be an unwitting accomplice to fate."

Puzzled, disappointed as well, Anck-su-namun watched as the priestess made a visible effort to collect herself. "There is nothing you can tell me? Nothing that I may know of the future?"

"I will tell you this, my child," the priestess offered, searching the younger woman's face with eyes that were ancient, all-seeing, filled with a sad knowledge. "The freedom that you so yearn for will come." As Anck-su-namun's face lit, the old woman made a quelling gesture. "It will come, but it will be bought with the edge of a blade, paid for at great cost. You will find love in this lifetime and in others, but death will stalk your footsteps, and betrayal will mark your soul. Not only your life hangs in the balance, but another's, as well. Mark my words, and learn from them if you can. Fate will have its way, using us mortals at its pleasure, but the end is never cast in stone. There is always a choice to be made."

Anck-su-namun would have asked for more revelations, more guidance, but she could see from the set of the old woman's face that she would receive none. Silent, she waited as the old woman began walking down the corridor, gesturing for her to follow.

They passed through a number of successively smaller hallways and chambers, finally stopping next to a pillared alcove, overhung by a large tapestry. Stopping, Mukarramma held the intricately woven wall hanging aside, gesturing for Anck-su-namun to enter the alcove, following her inside. Once out of sight of anyone traversing the hallway, the old woman reached out a hand, pressing against a shallow indentation in the wall. With an almost inaudible click, a rectangular-shaped hairline fissure opened in the wall, quickly widening into a concealed doorway that opened smoothly and silently into a narrow hallway, lit only by a solitary torch. Mukarramma pointed to the hallway.

"Through that hallway lies the path to Osiris' temple. Take the torch inside and continue down its length for two hundred paces. There, you will find an alcove similar to this, and another doorway, which opens in the same way. Through that door is the garden, and the chamber we spoke of. You may use it when you can, as often as you wish, whenever you are able. No one else knows of it—you will not be disturbed."

Anck-su-namun peered down the dimly lit hallway, and felt a twinge of fear begin to blossom within her. The priestess' words had disturbed her more than she was willing to admit, even to herself, and she felt an overpowering sense of foreboding.

"You are sure you wish to do this, my lady?" She would not put the priestess in this position, if the woman had any doubts at all.

"The deed is already done, and I do not regret that I have played a part." She hesitated, not knowing whether or not she should continue, but she followed her instinct, and revealed the rest. "This first time, you will not be alone in the chamber. When I learned of your arrival, I sent word to Imhotep, who wished to know. He waits for you there, now." She watched the girl's face as she spoke, and as she had known it would, the news brought a flush to the young woman's cheek and a brightness to her eyes, both of which had been noticeably absent before. It was as she had feared, and she sighed inwardly. Fate was at work here, and had its talons sunk deeply into not just one life, but two.

Anck-su-namun did not hesitate any more at all, quickly slipping inside the narrow doorway and removing the torch from its holder on the wall. She turned to the high priestess.

"Thank you, my lady. I am much in your debt." With a respectful nod of her head, and a quick smile, she turned and nearly ran down the hallway towards the hidden garden and the priest who waited there.

Mukarramma watched as she disappeared into the gloom, the light from the torch rapidly fading, swallowed eagerly by the darkness. With another sigh, she closed the concealed doorway, making sure that it was tightly shut. Bowing her head, she said a quick prayer to the goddess, asking that Isis watch over those two, that if it were within her power, she shield them from what Mukarramma's vision had revealed. But within her heart, the old woman knew that fate would have its way, as it always did. In the end, no man was immune to his own destiny.

Slowly, the high priestess left the alcove, and as she walked away, her footsteps were slower, less sure, and her age more apparent than ever.

* * *

Anck-su-namun reached the doorway to the garden quickly, setting the torch into a waiting holder, opening the door with no hesitation at all. It swung out, into the garden, and for a moment, she was blinded by the bright sunlight that struck her eyes after the dimness of the tunnel. Shielding her eyes from the light, she walked through the portal, and into the garden, her feet encountering the softness of grass, the scent of lotus, the sound of running water. 

After a moment, her eyes adjusted to the sun's radiance, and she dropped her hand, looking around the small courtyard, instinctively seeking and finding the tall, black-robed form that waited within. Seeing him, her heart seemed to skip a beat, thudding in her chest and then picking up speed, pounding in her ears and sending the blood rushing through her suddenly over-warm body. Now that she was here, actually in his presence, she was suddenly shy, awkward. For much had changed since the last time they had talked, and she was bitterly aware of those changes.

The priest saw her as well, turning away from the fountain and its serenely splashing waters that had engrossed him before she arrived. Slowly, he walked towards her, hands clasped behind his back, fighting against the urge to reach out and take her hands in his. He reminded himself that he had only come for a moment, to reassure himself of her continued health, and then he would leave her. He must.

"You are well?" He spoke quietly, his low, beautifully modulated voice washing over her ears, soothing and gentle. Unfortunately, it only served to remind her of its stark contrast to another voice, and the joy she had experienced when she first caught sight of him evaporated in a tide of despair. He was everything that she did not, could not have, and his nearness magnified that loss, made it all the more heartbreaking.

"I will survive," she said at last, bowing her head, refusing to look at him, not willing to meet his eyes, and he understood her meaning. It was done. She was Seti's. His gut clenched at the thought, but he forced the feeling away. She spoke truly. She would survive, and that was the important thing.

Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, he drew closer, and with one hand tilted up her chin. "Nothing has changed in how I think of you, Anck-su-namun. Nothing that has happened _will_ change that." He tried to show her with his eyes, with the gentleness in his hand, that he spoke the truth. "You are still the person you always were, and my…feelings for you, they are the same as well." He wondered at the wisdom in what he said, what he did, but he was very nearly past the point of wisdom.

She looked up at him then, and he felt himself falling into the dark depths of her eyes, drowning in them, unable and unwilling to save himself. When she spoke, it was a whisper. "Why did you come here? Why did you wait for me?"

He opened his mouth to answer her, to tell her that he had only come to see for himself that she was safe and well, but he realized that the words he had carefully prepared were a lie, and even if they were safer than the truth, he would not dishonor her by speaking falsely. Instead, he reached out, removing the veil from her hair, brushing its glossy thickness back from her face, his eyes hungrily memorizing each curve of her face, each feature. "I came because I could not stay away."

He heard her indrawn breath, and then she, too, reached out to him, touching him this time, not just tracing a gesture in the air, her long, slim fingers tracing the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. He closed his eyes to the pleasure her simple touch gave him, and his hands found her shoulders, fingers gripping them with a gentle strength, then sliding down her arms to take her hands in his. He opened his eyes to see her standing closer to him than ever, head tilted up towards his, lips slightly parted.

"My lord…" The words were a whisper, a sigh. He brought his hand to her lips, stopping her words.

"No. There are no titles between us, no barriers. Here, in this place, we are simply two people who…who care for one another, who can find some solace in each other's presence. Use my name, Anck-su-namun—let me hear you say my name…"

Her eyes darkened, growing even wider than before, and she granted his wish, his name flowing past her lips like a caress. "Imhotep…"

There was one moment when he could still have managed to pull away, still have left her there alone, assured of her safety, and chosen the safer path. But he hesitated, and the moment was lost, submerged beneath the inescapable wave of desire, and his feet settled with finality on the path fate had lain before him, had set out for them both. His grip on her hands tightened, and he pulled her to him, narrowing the space between them to a breath. His eyes never left hers, watching as the kohl-lined lids fell closed, as she lifted her mouth to meet his. And when their lips finally touched, that kiss, the union of their lips and mouths, the physical manifestation of the joining of their spirits, sealed the bond between them, the connection that had begun in the moonlight of the Syrian desert, had deepened in the healing chamber of Osiris' temple, and was now an indelible mark upon both their souls. The kiss deepened, growing in passion and intensity, and they gave themselves over to it, surrendering themselves into fate's hands.

* * *

Imhotep was the first to draw away, pulling his lips from hers after a final, lingering kiss, using all his considerable willpower to steady his breathing, calm his racing heart. He felt as though he had been dropped from a great height, as though he were caught in a free fall, as though his soul had left his body and taken wing. Never before had a woman's touch affected him in such a way—never before had he felt anything remotely close to this. He was proud of his legendary self-control—he depended upon it, relied upon it while conducting the political business and social games inherent to his position—and yet the slightest touch from this woman, this girl, stole it away effortlessly, as though it had never existed in the first place. 

He looked down at her, her lips red and swollen from his kisses, her eyes filled with the drugged lethargy of passion, her skin flushed with the heat of desire, and he wanted nothing more than to carry her into the chamber beyond, lie down with her upon the rugs and pillows scattered about the room, and show her what the union of a man and a woman could be—what it _should_ be. He could take her back from Seti, use his own body to wipe the memories of the pharaoh's possession from her mind, from her body, from her soul.

But he would not, because to do so would be condemning them both, sealing their fates as surely as if they had taken up arms against Egypt. A union between them was treason, punishable by death. What they had already done was enough—to do more was to thumb their noses at the gods.

He took a step back, intending to put a safe distance between them, opening his mouth to list the many reasons why they could not continue down this path. But she stepped with him, hanging on to his robe, pressing her supple body up against his, and he felt his resistance begin to fracture, huge chinks and fissures appearing in the armor of his will, and when she spoke, it began to crumble away.

"No! Please—do not leave me. If this is all I can have, all the freedom that is available to me, then stay here with me. Show me that there is more to love than the perverted acts forced upon me by Seti. Please…" As she spoke, her fingers found the opening to the high collared robe he wore, finding where it fastened and loosening it so that it fell open, revealing the smooth, bronze skin of his chest, leaving her free to touch him. And touch him she did, running her hands over the hot skin she had uncovered, pressing her lips to his flesh in a lingering kiss that was erotic in its innocence.

He groaned, feeling the answering swell of his desire, and the last of his resistance fell away, crumbling into the useless sand it had been made from in the first place. He dragged her to him, lowering his mouth to hers once more, and this time the kiss was demanding, forceful, wringing a response from her that she seemed all too willing to give.

His hands moved, removing the rest of the scarves that swathed her body, loosening the flowing robe that she wore, and the garments fell away, leaving her standing there naked before him, her chin up, her dark eyes smoldering with need, willingly offering him what she had managed to deny Seti. More than her body, more than a carnal joining together of the flesh—what she offered, and what he in that moment accepted, was a gift of the spirit, a joining of the body, a union of the soul.

For a moment, he simply stood there, his gaze traveling over the perfection of her flesh—the long, slim legs, the flare of her hip, the tiny waist, the generous curves of her rose-tipped breasts, the beauty of her face. Then, unable to wait any longer, he shrugged out of his robe, letting it drop to the floor, unfastening the loincloth that covered him from waist to thigh. When that garment fell away he, too, was naked, offering himself to her just as she had done for him.

Her eyes ran over his body as well, taking in the strength of his limbs, the smooth beauty of his golden, shaved skin, the burgeoning evidence of his desire for her. With a small, almost shy smile, she raised passion dark eyes to his face, and held out her arms to him, an invitation so erotically seductive that it took his breath away.

In one swift move, she was in his arms, and his lips were closing on hers in a slow, scorching kiss. He swept her from her feet, carrying her through the garden and into the room beyond, laying her down on the pillows, fanning her ebony hair out around her head, tangling his fingers in the silken strands, lifting it to his face to feel its softness, inhale its scent. He ran his hands over the length of her, probing, exploring, plying her body with an expertise that drove her wild, working her into a fevered state of need. Finally, at last, he covered her body with his, holding himself over her, poised at her entrance, searching her countenance for any sign of hesitance, any hint of regret, but finding nothing save a hunger that matched his own. Slowly, with infinite care, he lowered himself onto her, his hot, hard length sliding into her moist, welcoming flesh. Closing his eyes to the pleasure, he drove deep, filling her entirely, stretching her body to conform to his.

She cried out at his possession, but not in pain, and the tears that ran down her face were not tears of sadness. As they moved together, legs entwined, mouths and lips blazing moist paths over willing flesh, eager hands searching, seeking, hips rocking together in a primal rhythm, the last of the barriers between them evaporated, and their destinies were sealed. They were no longer two creations, but one, and fate smiled as she wrapped them lovingly in her fatal embrace.

With a cry, Anck-su-namun felt the world shatter around her, and raised her hips, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him deeper within, her body convulsing around his. Eyes open, Imhotep watched her as she climaxed, rejoicing in her fulfillment. With one last, deep plunge, he allowed himself to cross the threshold as well, feeling his own shudder of completion, and with a groan, he spilled himself into her.

Later, as she dozed on the silken pillows, Imhotep went and collected their scattered clothing, returning dressed in his loincloth and carrying his robe. He used it to cover her lush curves, watching as she smiled and stretched in her sleep, gathering the robe close about her, inhaling his scent that wafted from its folds. His answering smile was tinged with sadness, and he walked to the doorway of the secluded garden, looking up into the blue sky of Egypt, wondering what the future held for them. Wondering what it _could_ hold for them.

* * *

Life went on, as life will, and the days grew into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into years. Their affair went on as well, and they continued to meet as often as they could, at first only daring to come together in their secret rendezvous, later carrying out their trysts in Imhotep's chambers within the temple, or even Anck-su-namun's quarters in the palace. This last was most dangerous, and they only risked doing so when Seti was gone from the place, taking most of his Med Jai guard with him. 

It was not long before their relationship had deepened to the point where they were unable to call it anything but what it was, if in truth it had been anything less, and they became lovers in word as well as in deed. So long as they managed to keep their relationship secret, they were safe from Seti's wrath, safe from the terrible punishment they both would face should he ever discover the truth. And so time passed. And with time came comfort, and with comfort came routine, and with routine, complacency.

Over time, Anck-su-namun grew resigned to her place as Seti's concubine, and stopped fighting against it, even in her own mind. She despised Seti, still felt occasional pangs of disgust at what she had been reduced to, but as long as she had Imhotep, as long as they had their time together, she was content to live a double life, serving Seti at his convenience, all the while thinking of the man who held her heart. And Imhotep lived a dual existence as well, carrying on with the façade of being a faithful servant to his god and his pharaoh, all the while he was blaspheming them both with his duplicity, however well intentioned, however purely motivated by the love he bore Anck-su-namun.

Seti, too, settled into the routine of his relationship with Anck-su-namun, forgetting their early days, thinking of her only as a beautiful and willing female, seeing only what she chose to let him see, growing to value her youth and beauty for more reasons than one. As time passed, he allowed her greater freedom, giving in to her request to offset her boredom with palace life by training in Sai, a form of combat more resembling a deadly form of acrobatics than a true brawl. Eventually, when he saw how skilled she was at the art, he even requested that she begin training his oldest daughter, Nefertiri, and took great pleasure in watching them spar. His daughter learned quickly, and Anck-su-namun was a gifted teacher, patient with the younger girl's initial clumsiness, encouraging as she grew more skilled.

Seti watched all this, and began to ponder his advancing years as well, and shortly before Anck-su-namun's twenty-sixth birthday, he informed his most favored concubine that she would be given the great privilege of becoming his wife, the mother of his future children. Indeed, he had hinted as much before, and rumors of such an alliance had begun to circulate throughout the palace. He was pleased to validate those rumors, pleased to give her this gift, for he had become genuinely fond of her, content with their relationship, happy with her willing submissiveness to his every whim, pleased that she had become a friend to his daughter, whom he loved dearly.

As he informed her of this, and watched her react to the news, he missed the brief flare of true emotion in her eyes, and saw only what he wished to see. He saw her smile, her beautiful face beaming up into his, her ripe body pressed against him, and he was pleased. Had he seen the expression on her face when he pulled her to him, Seti might have wondered, for the look was deadly calm, a layer of pure ice underneath a beautiful mask, and the cold, ruthless calculation in the black depths of her eyes would have made even Imhotep himself question her motives.

* * *

Eliana watched as Imhotep fell silent, staring off into the pre-dawn sky. The story had been a long time in the telling, and night was fading quickly. Soon, the sun would rise, and the night would be over. Soon, they could be on their way again. But not yet. She put her hand on his arm, letting it linger, asking him to finish. 

"You haven't told me the rest. Why would you—we—have killed Seti? Why not just continue the affair, even after he had married Anck-su-namun? You were safe, secure in your positions. He trusted her. He trusted _you_. Why risk so much?"

"There was a…complication. The potions supplied by the palace midwives failed her, and Anck-su-namun became pregnant. Much as she despised Seti, much as she abhorred the idea of becoming his wife, she became obsessed with the idea of the child growing up in the palace, being the pharaoh's heir. Even though Ramses stood to inherit the crown after Seti's death, her child would be a member of the royal family, virtually untouchable, protected by the Med Jai, able to enjoy all the benefits and privileges of being a son or daughter of the gods' own emissary on earth. And to some degree, Anck-su-namun herself would be have been more secure within the palace, as well." He shook his head, remembering the fierce argument they had had, when Anck-su-namun told him of her plan.

"She would not listen to me, no matter how much I begged her to. I pleaded with her to let me take her away—to use the wealth I had accumulated over the years to help her escape the palace and spirit her away to someplace safe. Somewhere far away, where she and I could live together in peace, and raise the child together. Perhaps back to the Syrian wilderness where she had lived before—where I first met her. We would have given up much, but at least we would have been together, and free of Seti's clutches. But she would have none of it. She had no desire to return to the desert, no desire to leave Egypt. She was completely driven by the desire to ensure this child's future as a member of the royal family. I told her many times that it was a futile dream, but she would not listen. I should have been stronger. I should have simply taken her away; forced her to abandon her scheme." He sighed, and Eliana could see how reluctant he was to revive these memories, even with a distance of thirty-three centuries separating him from the actual events.

"You know already, from what I have told you, that Seti was a harsh man, a vindictive man, rigid and set in his ways, and even though he had already informed Anck-su-namun of his intention to take her as his wife, he did not wish to make the formal announcement solidifying their relationship until the time came that he deemed appropriate. He wanted to wait for several months, making the announcement during the festival at which his daughter, Nefertiri, would be named official guardian of the Bracelet of Anubis." He paused, seeing her questioning look, and answered the unasked question. "Yes, the bracelet that is central to the Scorpion King legends. Nefertiri was its guardian, its protector."

"Why would Seti care if Anck-su-namun were pregnant?" It felt strange to talk about Anck-su-namun in the third person, under the circumstances, but there were no memories associated with this part of her past life, and Eliana felt no connection to it at all, save for the sympathy she felt for the priest. It didn't feel like something that had happened to _her_. "Didn't he want to marry her in the first place _because_ she was young, and _could_ give him children?"

"You are not thinking like the ruler of a dynasty," Imhotep cautioned her, and she could almost see a sad smile hovering on his lips. "Seti did not wish to—would not—change his plans and marry Anck-su-namun before the appropriate time. And if a child were born to her too early in the marriage, it would be forever tainted by the stain of illegitimacy, even though no one would question its parentage. For it to have been conceived without the benefit of the gods' blessing on the union would have been enough to guarantee the damage. Her entire reason for wanting to marry Seti was to give this child all of the opportunities she had not had, the freedom she had craved all her life, and she was desperate to accomplish that. She had learned much about Seti's…tastes…over the years, and thought that she could change his mind, seduce him into relenting, into marrying her immediately." He looked down, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "I knew better. I had known Seti for years. I knew he could not be dissuaded. She would have had a greater chance of success if she had tried to convince Osiris himself to come down from the heavens and carry her and her unborn child off into the West with him. Still, I let her persuade me to do nothing, to wait for her to work her wiles on Seti, to let her try to have what she so desperately wanted. I was a fool to do so."

Eliana could barely breathe. The tension in Imhotep was palpable, pouring from him in waves. She almost asked him to stop, but found, in the end, that she couldn't. The story he told was too gripping in its sheer hopelessness, and she had to know the rest. "She was unable to change his mind?"

"Utterly. Seti knew that she was young, healthy, and that she could produce any number of children—legitimate children—for him in the future. This child meant nothing to him, save for the problems it was causing. He demanded that she go to the Temple of Isis and see the priestesses there." The irony of Seti sending her to that particular temple was not lost on him, or on Eliana. "They had herbs, potions—any number of tonics—that could be used to end a pregnancy, to cause her to lose the child. She refused. Seti was incensed by her stubbornness, her unwillingness to yield to his wishes."

Eliana knew that the worst was yet to come, and found that she was holding her breath, trying to calm her pounding heart, as she waited for the climax to this tragedy. When it came, it was worse than she had expected.

"Seti beat her horribly. He had always been quick to use his fists to get what he wanted, and Anck-su-namun's tenacity in insisting that he claim the child infuriated him. I should have known, I should have remembered how he had first treated her, but it had been years since he had harmed her in that way, and I thought…I thought…" His voice broke, and he shook his head, clearly fighting back the emotions that came with these memories. "He was mindless with rage, and he beat her until she was covered in bruises—broken, bleeding, nearly unconscious." He closed his eyes, unwilling to recall the image, but powerless to stop it. "The Med Jai brought her to the temple—_my_ temple, where the priests were trained as healers, as well as clerics. She was half dead when they brought her to me. I scarcely recognized her. My priests and I—we used all of our skills, all of our spells, all of our magic arts, but the damage was too great. We were able to heal Anck-su-namun, repair the injuries that had been done to her. But the child…it was too late, the injuries were too great, and the child…was lost."

Eliana's hand was at her throat, her mouth open in shock, tears welling in her eyes. Even though this was, in a way, her story, she felt no connection to it, save the sadness anyone would feel at hearing such a heartbreaking tale. She had no memories of the events, no residual emotions, nothing. But she could plainly see that such was not the case with Imhotep. The priest stood near the rock wall of the cave's entrance, his mouth a tight, rigid line on a face deliberately wiped clean of emotion. His eyes, though, gave lie to the careful neutrality of his expression. Even though he stared fixedly at some unknown spot far off in the distant jungle, studiously avoiding looking at her or meeting her eyes, Eliana could see the glimmer of unshed tears.

"So Seti beat Anck-su-namun so badly that he killed his own child?" It was hard to believe that anyone could be that cold, that vicious, that heartless. Just then, Imhotep looked up at her, and the pain in his eyes was more than she could bear. She moved nearer to him, intending to offer him some sort of comfort, but his next words froze her in place, appalled.

"The child was conceived during Seti's campaign to Kush." A memory stirred in Eliana's mind, far off, distant, a fragment of a dream. Her heart seemed to stop, then started up again, racing this time. _Oh, God,_ she thought. _No…it couldn't be…_ "He was gone for weeks." Imhotep stopped, then raised his hand to his face, rubbing it over his eyes. When he looked up, Eliana could see the tears shining in the brown depths, tears he no longer made an effort to hide.

"The child was not Seti's. It was mine—ours. The bastard beat you almost to death and _he killed our child._" His face suddenly hardened, turned vicious, brutal. "For that, he died. We waited until Anck-su-namun had recovered completely, until Seti's accursed festival was over, until the announcement had been made, and then we killed him." His voice had by now lost all expression, all emotion, and the matter-of-fact way he spoke the next words chilled Eliana to the core.

"We killed him in his own chambers, with my priests standing guard, with his Med Jai guards lurking outside. By killing him, we virtually sealed our own fates. There was only one small chance for us to avoid the consequences of our actions, and as fate would have it, that chance was denied us. We were found out, and the rest, you know."

He watched her as he spoke the last words, searching for some expression on her face by which he could gauge her reaction. All he saw was horror, and sadness, and pity. No trace of memory. It was as if he had told the story to a stranger. He sighed. What had he expected?

"Seti died, and you and Anck-su-namun were discovered, and cursed by the Med Jai." There was more to this than he was telling her, she could sense it, but she couldn't bear to make him talk about it any more—not now. The pain in his eyes was too raw, too fresh. Whatever was left of the story could wait. His eyes bored into hers, and she could see his hatred for the long-dead pharaoh burning in them, like two twin flames from hell.

"Yes. We killed him, and we bore the curse. And if I were able to go back and relive those moments, I would happily kill him again. If ever a man deserved to die, it was Seti."

Eliana could stand it no longer. She crossed the distance separating them, and wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him tightly to her, burying her face in the folds of the robe that covered his chest. For a long moment, he stood there rigidly, hands at his sides, not willing to accept the embrace, or the emotion that had prompted it. Finally, slowly, he raised his arms and put them around her, at first simply holding her loosely within the circle of his arms, then pulling her tightly against him. Eliana burrowed closer, willing him to feel the warmth and the comfort that she freely offered. He laid his cheek against the top of her head, and for just a moment, she almost imagined that she felt the wetness of tears against her hair.

They were still standing in the mouth of the cave, holding each other, when the sun rose over the horizon, turning the sky from the indigo of dawn to the bright pinkish orange of early morning. The light bathed the jungle, awakening it from its slumber, and a new day dawned on Ahm Shere.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Just a quick note to thank all of you who have taken the time to post a review. I can't tell you how happy it makes me to know that _Redemption_ was remembered and missed even after all this time. Thank you!

**RenegadeWriter**: I am humbled and moved by the dedication you made at the beginning of your story, _Accepting Fate: Love Lost and Passion Found_. To know that _Redemption_ played a part in inspiring someone else's creativity... I am deeply honored. Thank you!

**Firebrand**: Thank you so much for your kind words! I remember you from the first time around with _Redemption_--I always loved getting your reviews! Glad you found the story again and are enjoying the re-read!

**nepuchuun**: I'm glad that the characterization of Eliana is working for you! I have to admit--reconciling the differences between Anck-su-namun, Meela and Eliana, while at the same time managing to portray them as different manifestations of the same soul, was probably one of the more challenging bits of writing _Redemption_. Thank you!

**Juliya**: Thank you for the review! I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

**Antonia**: I don't know if you're out there or, if you are, if you're reading _Redemption_ again, but if you are... I fixed the units of measurement problem! Everything's metric now. Thanks for pointing that out, and glad you enjoyed the story.

And last but not least--**Calli**, if you're out there, and still reading fan fic, and if you happen to find _Redemption_ again, please know that I think of you often. The note you sent after I finished writing and posting _Redemption_ in April 2002 and the e-mails we exchanged after that moved me deeply, and I was so happy to know that _Redemption_ brought you some happiness during a terrible time. I hope you're okay,and that time has healed as much as it can. Take care, and be well!


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

_And the quiet that settles on our skin before dawn keeps company with those whose dreams are troubled._

_--Excerpt from "In the Talons of the Hawk", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

Bernstein looked up into the canopy of the forest, searching the mid-morning sky for the source of the sound they had heard earlier. They had heard it once before, just after sunrise, and again now, scant moments ago. It sounded like a chopper, slowly circling the area in a widening path, almost as if it were looking for them. Not seeing anything, not even hearing anything anymore, he turned back to the group of men that were gathered dispiritedly at a lopsided table, drinking lukewarm coffee and staring forlornly into the trees.

They had made their way back to the camp the night before, crashing out from the trees and collapsing in a panting heap in the center of what had once been their neatly organized camp. Now, it was a ragged assortment of tents and boxes, the supplies and provisions scattered about, the workers and students wandering around in a daze. And in the middle of it all was Sabir, shouting orders above the din, struggling to bring some order to the chaos.

When the cook realized that they had returned, he had thrown his hands up into the air, falling to his knees and shouting praises to Allah as he bowed his head to the ground. After seeing the extent of the destruction, and coming face to face with one of the natives, he had expected the worst, and was horribly relieved that the four men had been spared. Bernstein, though, was somewhat dismayed by this uncharacteristically enthusiastic display, and he had struggled to his feet, grabbing the cook by the arm and pulling him up to stand beside him.

"Sabir, I appreciate the sentiment, but let's not get carried away, okay? We're back, we're all right, for the most part, and we need to figure out what the hell to do about this mess." As he spoke, Bernstein's eyes had traveled around the site, scanning it for any signs of the vicious little citizens of the jungle that they had encountered earlier. "You haven't seen anything, uh…more alarming than this…this growth spurt, have you?"

Sabir had looked at Bernstein with something akin to disbelief on his swarthy features. Briefly, he had filled the archaeologist in on his short but memorable encounter with the Pygmy, assuring the scientist that since it had run off, he had seen no more of them. Nor did he want to. He and the workers had been busy trying to restore some order to the camp, Callie had been tending to Eric, and Doug and the students had been helping out where needed. The Sudanese government officials had been hiding in their tents.

Hesitant to leave the camp unguarded, Bernstein had thanked the portly cook for his help in keeping the camp organized amid the pandemonium, and then asked him to pick out a dozen of the most steady, reliable workers they had, trying hard to ignore Sabir's snort of derision. Surely there must be some. They would need to set up a rotating guard schedule, at least through the night, to ensure that if the gruesome denizens of the jungle came near, they would at least have warning enough to mount some sort of defense. Bernstein had to admit, though, that apart from Robert Price's handgun, they were woefully unarmed. He wondered to himself how much of a defense they could manage against the spear-wielding Pygmies while armed with nothing but horsehair brushes, trowels, and one or two shovels. Hopefully, they wouldn't have to find out.

After another round of praise to his god for the deliverance of the four men, Sabir had gone off to find a few good workers to conscript into guard duty. Although he didn't go into any explanation of how difficult he thought that task might be, Bernstein could hear him muttering under his breath as he stalked off. Bernstein sighed. He didn't need to hear from Sabir how difficult it would be to find men with the temperament suitable to guard duty. He was well aware of how superstitious and skittish his workers were.

That had been last night. Under Sabir's somewhat heavy-handed persuasion, the reluctant guards had been rounded up, assigned their posts, relieving each other as necessary, and the night had passed quietly, uneventfully, with no surprise visitors, no sneaking attacks. No one had slept well, though, and this morning showed the effects of their sleep deprivation. For a moment, when they first heard the sound of the chopper, they had been excited, sure that help had finally arrived. But as the sound faded off, vanishing off into the distance, their hopes had faded with it, and all they could do now was wait. Wait for help to arrive, wait for the results of the blood tests, wait to see if they would survive another day. None of them, Bernstein in particular, was any good at waiting.

Sighing as he stopped scanning the sky, Bernstein moved to rejoin his colleagues for a last cup of coffee. He turned, almost running into Callie, who had been standing quietly behind him, waiting for him to notice her.

She put out a hand, steadying him. "Careful, Professor Bernstein." She smiled, although it was a tired, dispirited sort of smile. "I am sorry to have startled you, but I'd like to talk to you about something, if I may…"

"Of course, Callie. What is it?" He knew from their brief acquaintance that she was a level headed young woman, and he didn't like the worried look that he saw in her dark brown eyes.

"It's Doug. I noticed last night that he had been coughing a bit, and he was complaining of a headache, as well. I don't want to overreact, but those are warning signs, Professor. He could be coming down with the same virus that Eric has, and I think that he should be ordered to rest, confined to his tent. Just until we find out for sure what this is, of course, and see how he's doing…"

Bernstein closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers_. Damn it! First Eric, now Doug, too? When would this stop?_ "How long?"

"The World Health Organization should arrive at any time, Professor," she answered him, then glanced around the camp, and at the thick forest surrounding it, slightly uncertain. "That is, if they can find the place. They have the GPS coordinates, but they'll be looking for us in desert, not jungle. I hope that they're…adaptable. In the meantime, if you could just convince Doug to rest up for just a day or so, I think we'll have some answers by then." She paused, dropping her eyes, not wanting Bernstein to see the full extent of the worry there. "He won't listen to me—says I'm overreacting, that he just has a slight cold. But if this is what it seems to be, and if he managed to contract it without actually coming into direct contact with the liquid in the pyramid, we are all in grave danger, sir. That would mean that the disease is airborne…"

Bernstein nodded, understanding her, knowing that Doug needed to be ordered to rest, not only for his own sake, but for all of theirs. He patted her on the shoulder, in his own gruff way, thanking her for her help, trying to offer some support. "Don't worry, Callie, I'll talk to him." He sighed, turning to find the young man. "He's not going to like it, but Doug is going to be taking a nice long rest, starting right about now."

"Thank you, Professor," she called to him, smiling sadly as he waved a hand in a brief salute. _The poor man._ His dig was falling apart all around him, and she couldn't help but feel sorry for him, for them all. The Ahm Shere expedition was rapidly turning into a nightmare, and she hoped that they would all manage to wake up from it still alive.

* * *

They left the cave shortly after sunrise, traveling swiftly along the ledge, finally finding a steep but relatively navigable path down to the valley floor. Imhotep led the way, stopping at the bottom to hold out a hand to Eliana, steadying her as she jumped the rest of the way to the ground. He tried to ignore the flash of awareness as their fingers touched, telling himself to concentrate only on what needed to be done, and put everything else from his mind. It didn't matter how her touch affected him, it didn't matter how he felt when he looked at her. It didn't matter.

Eliana, too, had studiously ignored the tingling sensation that she felt when his hand wrapped around hers. The night was over, and along with it the strange intimacy that had enveloped them following his revelations in the cave. If anything, the tale he had shared had made them even more awkward in each other's presence, and they danced around the mountain of their shared past like two gazelle trying to ignore the lion that has just walked into the herd.

There was only so much silence that she could take though, and finally Eliana had had enough. "How much farther, do you think?" Eliana asked him, pushing her hair back behind one ear. It was an innocuous question, and she didn't think he'd mind that she'd broken the unspoken agreement to remain silent. He glanced at her, checked the position of the sun, squinting against its brightness, and briefly scanned their location. In the end, he shrugged.

"I do not know. The fall has cost us some time. I believe the pyramid lies that way," he said, pointing back towards the cliff face, "and if we were traveling in the right direction to begin with, the camp should lie over there." Again, he pointed. "But we have traveled a significant distance from our original path, and will need to retrace our footsteps. I cannot say how long it will be. Maybe several hours, maybe more. I do not think it will be less."

She nodded, bending down to lace her boot more tightly. Standing again, she looked at him questioningly, wondering how far she could push to assuage her curiosity. Finally, she decided to just ask the questions. After all, the worst he could do was refuse to answer. "May I ask you something?"

He nodded, just a hint of reluctance in his eyes.

"You said yesterday that you have been given a task to complete," she started, watching him closely. "What is it? What must you do?"

He looked at her, then looked away, clearly caught in an internal debate over what, if anything, to tell her. Finally, with a sigh, he decided he had no reason to keep from her what little he himself knew. "In truth, I do not know. Not entirely."

He took a step in the supposed direction of the camp, impatient to be on their way again, beginning to walk back along the cliff wall in the direction from which they had come. "We should continue our journey. I will tell you what I know as we walk." Eliana moved to follow him, listening to him relate the story of his encounter with Amun-Re as they went. It did not take long, for he had spoken the truth when he told her how little he knew. Regarding the nature of the plague itself, his theory was mostly speculation, and all that speculation hinged on whatever illness it was that Eric had contracted.

"So this illness—this disease? You think it might be the plague Amun-Re spoke of?" In the back of her mind, Eliana wondered at the fact that she sounded so matter-of-fact, that she was accepting without question the idea that he had spoken with a god, that he had been given a task to complete by that same god, and that when he did so, he would be free to…to die. The fact that Eric could be ill with some kind of plague of biblical proportions just made it all the more unbelievable. If she did anything more than simply take in all this information and accept it at face value, if she started to analyze any of it, she would get caught in a vicious cycle where the generally accepted scientific principles could simply not be reconciled with the facts that were staring her in the face. If she went down that path, she would have to seriously question her own sanity. And she didn't want to go there. She felt completely sane. _Maybe that's a sure sign that I'm crazy_, she thought, laughing inwardly.

He glanced back at her. "I do not know. But if it is as you described, it could be."

She shook her head, trying to assimilate all of this information into something that made sense. "But how could you resolve this? I mean, I know you were a healer and all, but we've learned a lot in the past three thousand years, you know? Don't you think that our doctors, and our medicines, could cure him?"

He shrugged. "As I said, I do not know. But are you saying, then, that your culture has managed to find a cure for all diseases, all illnesses? You have progressed that far?"

"Well, of course not, but…" He cut her off with an impatient look.

"Then why do you doubt that some answers to present troubles may lie hidden in the past? Does your culture have so little respect for ancient knowledge?"

"Look, I didn't mean to offend you, all right?" She hadn't meant to sound like she doubted his skill, or his intelligence, but the whole situation sounded a little…bizarre. Then again, what wasn't completely bizarre about this whole situation? Why not add one more little tidbit to the whole strange stew?

"Your friend, Eric, may or may not have the plague that Amun-Re spoke of. I will only be able to judge that by seeing him, by examining him myself. If it is as you described, he is in grave danger, and I hope to all the gods that your science and your modern healers have discovered the cure for his disease. If they have not, then his illness certainly deserves to be considered a plague."

She turned her face away, blinking back tears for Eric. She had no idea how he was, how sick he had become, and she hoped to God that something could be done for him. "Believe me, I hope so, too."

* * *

They walked for two and a half hours before finding the pool. Pausing before a particularly thick wall of undergrowth, Imhotep shoved aside the branches and vines that blocked their path and stepped into the clearing, catching his breath at the sight that met his eye. He looked back, continuing to hold the clinging branches aside, waiting for Eliana to come through and join him, watching for her reaction as she did so.

As she stepped into the glade and took in the singular beauty of the place, she forgot to breathe. The clearing was a small one, but its setting more than made up for its size. A small stream cut through its center, roughly dividing it in half, flowing out from the clear, bubbling pool that took up most of the space. The water was deep blue, reflecting back the purity of the cloudless sky, and from the hint of steam that rose from its surface, Eliana realized the pool was warm, probably fed by a hot spring deep beneath the ground.

She looked around, seeing that the little glade was completely enclosed on all sides—thick forest on three, a sheer rock wall on the fourth. Down that wall tumbled a small waterfall, the water cascading down its face before mingling with the waters of the spring. Everywhere, the scent of wild roses lingered, and she saw them growing all around, the small white flowers thick on the glossy green shrubs. It was like they had stumbled into a corner of heaven.

She turned to him, wanting to share her joy in the beauty of the glade with him, and saw that he was standing perfectly still—watching her, not the clearing, not the cascading water. The look in his eyes was intense, riveting, and involuntarily, she took a step forward, reaching out a hand. "What's wrong?"

Her words seemed to snap him out of his bemusement, and he shook his head, stepping back from her. "Nothing."

Her eyes clouded, the terseness in his voice spoiling the enchantment of the glade. Her voice reflected the hurt she felt at his blatant avoidance of her touch, innocent as it had been. "I guess we'd better keep going, then." Spinning on her heel, she walked toward the stream, looking for a place to cross. He followed, watching as she tried to pick her way over a makeshift bridge of four slippery rocks, finally finding his own way across and reaching out a hand to help her.

Reluctantly, she took his hand, wincing as the electricity shot through her at the contact. She could see that he felt it as well, and when she was safe on the ground on the other side, she looked up at him, searching his face, trying to understand what was going on behind the carefully guarded expression he wore.

"You despise me, don't you?" she asked, finally, wanting the truth, no matter how much it hurt her.

He refused to meet her eyes, instead staring stoically out over her head, trying to decide how to answer her question. Finally, he settled on a half truth, one that addressed what she had asked, but didn't go far enough in explaining the complex tangle of his emotions. Dropping his gaze to hers, he stared into the jewel-green depths, now haunted by some age-old sadness. Fighting against an unwanted desire to comfort her, he spoke slowly, his voice purposely casual. "Despise is not the correct word," he offered. "Distrust, perhaps; fear, even. I will never again make the mistake of trusting so completely, of giving my heart so fully." Seeing the pain in her eyes, he went on. "It is a pointless question, anyway. Once this task is complete, I will be gone. It will not matter whether I trust you or not, or whether I do or do not despise you. I suggest you simply not think of it. Put it out of your mind—let it rest, remain buried. In the end, it will be better for both of us if you do so."

She nodded, suddenly feeling miserable, and said nothing as he walked past her, leading the way out of the glade. They remained quiet for a long while, traveling in silence through the trees and bushes. Suddenly, they heard movement ahead of them, and both froze. At Imhotep's signal, she followed him as he moved stealthily towards the sound. Up ahead, the trees cleared slightly, and as they peered through a thin spot in the underbrush, Eliana felt her heart leap.

Waving above them, high on the branches of the tallest palm tree, was the remains of the mess tent. Before her eyes, not four meters away, she saw Sabir, rummaging through the piles of boxes that lay in disarray all around, muttering to himself in his usual gruff manner. And to her great relief, far off on the other side of the clearing, she saw her father, apparently having words with Doug. _Thank God, he had made it back to the camp! Thank God!_

She was about to step out of their hiding spot, when Imhotep stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Have you forgotten?" he whispered, indicating with a sweep of his hand the garments he wore. She nodded in sudden understanding. They needed to find him a disguise, come up with a reasonable story to explain who he was and his sudden appearance at the dig. With a grin, Eliana looked towards Sabir, who was so intent on digging through the supplies that he hadn't even noticed them. As luck would have it, they had stumbled upon the very man they needed to find, the very soul she had intended to seek out in the first place. In a whisper, she pointed to Sabir and explained to Imhotep what they must do.

With a quick look around, they quietly moved out of hiding and went to confront the portly cook. Eliana hid her nervousness beneath a deliberately casual façade. Hopefully, she had chosen wisely. Hopefully, he could help them.

* * *

As luck would have it, Sabir accepted their story with little hesitation, the events of the past day having chipped away at his usual fortitude and weakened his characteristic ability to see through a scam when it was staring him in the face. At Eliana's explanation that she had been at the pyramid when it had risen from the ground, bringing the jungle with it, he nodded in mute sympathy. At her outright lie that Imhotep had found her wandering in the jungle, and helped her reach the camp, he smiled in gratitude at the man. At her somewhat vague description of who Imhotep was, and what he was doing near the excavation in the first place, he didn't bat an eye. Actually, she was more or less honest about Imhotep's origins, describing him simply as an Egyptian who was very interested in archaeology, particularly in the lore surrounding Ahm Shere. She didn't see any need to explain that Imhotep himself was a living artifact, as much an amazing discovery as was the golden pyramid itself. Some things were better left unsaid.

Sabir nodded and smiled, obviously distracted, and when she made her unusual request, asking him to round up some clothing for the tall Egyptian, explaining that all of his possessions had unfortunately been lost while running through the jungle, he waved for them to follow him, leading Imhotep to a small tent, telling Eliana to wait outside.

Within minutes, the cook reemerged from the tent, nodding his head at Eliana's thanks and walking off briskly to attend to his work. A few minutes later, Imhotep stepped out as well. Eliana's gaze swept over the priest, now dressed in borrowed clothes, and she couldn't help but smile. She had been right. Even wearing the old, threadbare clothing, intentionally setting out to look like one of the common laborers that worked for her father, Imhotep was remarkable. He was a wolf in sheep's clothing—the baggy, loose-fitting pants and the long, coarsely woven tunic giving him the outward appearance of a simple desert man. One only had to look in his eyes, though, or watch the arrogant, commanding way he held himself, to know that he was anything but common. Still, as a disguise, it was better than nothing; certainly, it was better than what he _had_ been wearing.

At her perusal, he lifted a questioning brow. "Is this not suitable?"

She bit back a snort. "Oh, I imagine it will do…"

* * *

Ardeth limped into the camp from the same general direction that Bernstein and the older men had come the night before, looking slightly the worse for wear. His clothing was dirty and disheveled, his eyes bleary from lack of sleep, and his battered leg was still making him limp painfully. And as bad as he looked, he felt worse. He recalled his grandfather's stories about the army of Anubis warriors that the Med Jai tribes had faced down seventy years ago, and he wondered briefly if the old man had felt remotely like this after that particular battle.

Tiredly, he replaced his sword in the leather sheath that hung by his side. It had come in handy several times the night before. The Pygmies were vicious little things, but even they could not stand against a sharp blade. Ardeth was relieved to have found the camp, though. He had not been certain how much longer he could have prevailed out in the jungle, given his injuries and lack of sleep. Sooner or later, he would have had to stop, and the natives would have taken that opportunity to finish him.

But he had found his way back, and right now, his most pressing need was to locate Bernstein and find out where Eliana was. Ardeth had tried in vain not to worry about her yesterday and last night, knowing that she was as safe—if not safer—with the priest as she would have been with him, at least in a physical sense. Her mental and emotional state—the state of her mind and soul—was another matter entirely, and he was desperate to find her, to see for himself that she was unharmed.

Walking slowly around the camp, Ardeth finally caught sight of Bernstein. The archaeologist was in the middle of an apparently heated conversation with one of the students—the boy named Doug, Ardeth thought. The Med Jai held back, not wanting to interrupt them, impatiently biding his time. Finally, Bernstein had had enough of the arguing, and bellowed out a command, pointing towards the tents. Grudgingly, the younger man appeared to capitulate, lapsing into a sulking silence and walking stiffly off towards one of the tents. Bernstein watched him go, a frown on his face.

Ardeth approached Bernstein from behind, dropping a blood-streaked hand on the older man's arm. Bernstein spun around, startled at first, thankful when he saw who it was. The look of relief on the archaeologist's face was almost palpable, as he drew the surprised Med Jai into a gruff embrace. "Thank God, Ardeth! Thank God you made it back!" He released the younger man, stepping around him to look in the direction Ardeth had come from. He turned back to the Med Jai, a puzzled look on his face. "But where's Eliana?"

Ardeth's heart fell. So she had not yet returned. He carefully shuttered his features, not letting the older man see how worried he was. It would not do to overly frighten him. Not yet, anyway. "I do not know, Professor Bernstein. I had hoped she would be here when I returned."

Bernstein's normally tan face was rapidly paling. "But I thought…wasn't she with _you_? Hadn't you gone to find her? Sabir said he thought you had caught up with her. _I_ thought you had found her." Ardeth shook his head, not knowing what or how much to say. The older man suddenly looked sick. "You mean she's out there alone?"

Ardeth reached out and grabbed Bernstein's arm, helping him to sit down in a nearby chair, wincing as the sudden movement put painful pressure on his injured leg. Eliana was not back yet. Bernstein had no idea where she was. The situation was rapidly getting out of hand. Ardeth took a deep breath, deciding that at the very least, Bernstein deserved to know where his daughter was, and that she was not alone in the jungle.

"I do not believe she is alone, Professor," Ardeth began, careful in his choice of words. "I did find Eliana after I left you yesterday. She was at the pyramid." He ignored Bernstein's look of shocked surprise. "I'm not sure what she was doing there." That was technically true, although he had a very good hunch about what her activities had involved. She had been busy resurrecting things that ought to have remained safely dead and buried, for one thing. But Bernstein didn't need to have all the details, at least not yet. Ardeth went on. "Before I could reach her, you must have replaced the capstone. The pyramid began to rise from the ground, and the interior was quite…chaotic. Although I saw your daughter, I could not reach her soon enough. The confusion that ensued kept us separated, and although I saw her leave the pyramid safely, I could not catch up with her. She was, however, not alone."

"But who was with her? One of the workers? What would they be doing there?" Bernstein was relieved to hear that his daughter had escaped the pyramid, but he was genuinely puzzled now. _Who had been with her?_ It was unlike Eliana to simply leave without letting someone know where she was going, and he cursed himself for having been so distracted yesterday as to not take better note of her whereabouts or who she was with. On the other hand, he told himself not to worry overly much. There still were several workers missing. It was possible that Eliana had brought someone with her yesterday, and they were still out in the jungle, trying to make their way back.

Ardeth debated over whether or not to answer Bernstein honestly, or to evade the question and tell a lie by omission. In the end, he decided on the truth. It would come out eventually, anyway. He shook his head. "I do not believe it was one of the workers, sir. It was…someone else." At Bernstein's look of alarm, he hastened to assure the older man. "From what I could tell, the man was very protective of your daughter, sir. I have every reason to believe that he will keep her safe until they find their way back here…"

Bernstein leaned his head into his hands, resting them on his knees. So she was out there in the jungle, with all of its dangers, alone with God knows who… _Dear God, how much worse could this cursed expedition get?_ His grief seeped out in a low moan. "Oh, God, Eliana…"

Ardeth placed his hand on the older man's shoulder. "Eliana will be all right, Professor Bernstein. I will go out again myself, and look for her. I promise you, no harm will come to her…"

* * *

A machete cut through the brush just behind Ardeth and Bernstein, whacking down the undergrowth in great, sweeping chunks. They looked up, startled, so caught up in their conversation that they hadn't even noticed the chopping noise until the intruder was almost on top of them. They watched, alarmed, as the last hunk of brush fell forward into the clearing, revealing a tall, strapping fellow dressed in tan trousers and a safari shirt. He carried the ax in his right hand, a pistol in his left, and an assortment of cases and containers around his neck. On his back was one of the biggest backpacks they had ever seen. Tall, the man was at least six foot four, with thick blonde hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, more often than not choosing to fall forward into his face. He was a good-looking fellow, the amiable grin on his face softening the threat implicit in the professional way he handled the machete and gun.

"Helloooo, there! Anyone home?" Not one for stealth, unless it was absolutely necessary, he strode out of the jungle, quickly scanning the clearing and its tattered remains of camp. The man was no one's fool, and within seconds, he had focused on Bernstein with laser-like precision. Making his way towards the older man, he put away his weapons, shoving the machete into the leather holster hanging from his belt before tucking his pistol into the waistband of his trousers. His long legs made short work of the distance between them, and in seconds, he was in front of Bernstein, sticking his hand out in greeting. "Matt Connelly, from the New York Times. You're Bernstein?"

Bernstein looked up into the young man's face, and although the Egyptologist was hard to rattle, his shock at Connelly's abrupt and rather colorful entrance was evident in the slight gape to his mouth. Standing slowly, he accepted the handshake with only the smallest hint of hesitation. "Yes, I'm John Bernstein. And _who_ are you?"

The young man grinned again, an easy humor on his ruggedly handsome face. "Like I said, the name's Matt Connelly, but after _that_," he said, pointing out into the thick forest, "I think you can probably call me George of the Jungle…"

Unable to do anything but laugh, Bernstein felt himself warming to the brash young man. "Connelly suits you better. So, you're from the Times? You're a long way from home, then. What brings you here?"

"I'm a journalist. Photojournalist, actually. Heard about the dig, came to see what you've discovered out here. From the looks of it, I'd say you've probably managed to dig up the world's biggest box of Miracle Gro, and some of the nastiest little pests I've ever run into…"

Bernstein laughed again. It was impossible not to appreciate Connelly's irreverent humor. "How exactly did you find us, Connelly?" He swept his arm around, indicating their dramatically altered surroundings. "We're not exactly where you would expect us to be…"

Connelly patted the instrument case attached to a belt loop. "GPS. Never go out in the field without it. Had your coordinates, tracked you down. Comes in real handy when a jungle decides to grow out of nowhere. Happens all the time."

Bernstein looked at him quizzically. "Seriously, Connelly. How did you get here? We heard a chopper earlier, but it flew off."

"Wasn't me, unless you're talking about _hours_ earlier. We left Khartoum before sunup. Got here just after daybreak. Told the pilot to circle the coordinates a bit, just to get the lay of the land, and then had him drop me off at the edge of the jungle—the edge closest to you all. Hiked in from there. Chopper couldn't land in this mess. Might have been able to, right by the pyramid, but he didn't want to chance it." He thought for a minute. "But you know, I think I did hear something earlier, myself. Maybe a half hour, hour ago?"

Bernstein nodded. So the first chopper, early this morning, had been Connelly's. _Was the second one from the World Health Organization, then? _He could only hope. In the meantime, he had more pressing needs. Finding his daughter topped that list. The thought of Eliana suddenly reminded him of Ardeth, standing quietly behind him, and he gestured for the younger man to come forward, ashamed of himself for not thinking before now to introduce him to the newcomer.

"Well, Connelly, welcome to the dig, or what's left of it." He indicated Ardeth. "This is Ardeth Bay, one of the assistants here. He's from one of the tribes to the north." Turning to Ardeth, "I guess you already caught Connelly's name…"

Ardeth nodded, his dark eyes carefully observing the newcomer, recording the various impressions that formed in his mind. On the surface, Connelly appeared to be just what he said he was—a brash American, sent here on assignment. But there was more to it than that, Ardeth was almost sure. There was something about him, something that triggered that Med Jai sixth sense…

Connelly stuck out his hand, tossing a friendly grin at Ardeth. "Happy to meet you."

Ardeth took the proffered hand, managing, just barely, not to react to the strange feeling that jolted through him when their palms met. _It was almost as if they had met before, or…_ Ardeth couldn't quite put his finger on it, although the feeling was not unlike what he had felt when he had met Eliana for the first time. With her, though, the identification had been relatively simple, for the curse that marked her soul—and Imhotep's—had also marked the Med Jai throughout time—marked them as guardians and sentinels. It was like recognizing a part of himself. This sensation of déjà vu with Connelly—it was similar, but it was also very different. But what it meant, Ardeth hadn't a clue…

Aware that he was reacting strangely, Ardeth made an effort to paste a smile on his face and greet the newcomer. Hopefully Connelly would attribute his odd behavior to the peculiarity of the whole situation. "Welcome to Ahm Shere, Mr. Connelly. I hope that your journey through the jungle was not too difficult."

Connelly shrugged, dismissing the jungle and its unpleasant natives in an almost humorously casual manner. He stared briefly at Ardeth, curiosity in his eyes. Although he had not felt the strange psychic charge during the handshake, he was an observant man, and Ardeth Bay was setting off warning bells in his head. _There was something about this guy that was sort of familiar…_ "Hey, have we met before, somewhere?"

Ardeth shook his head slowly. "No, I do not believe so."

The American frowned, ignoring Ardeth's reply. "I hardly ever forget a name or a face, but I swear I've seen you somewhere before. Damned if I can remember where, though…"

"I really do not believe our paths would have had the occasion to cross, Mr. Connelly. I have only been to America once, years ago, and except for a brief time at school in Cairo, I have spent most of my life here, on the desert." He looked around wryly. "Or at least what used to be the desert."

Connelly shook his head, still not convinced they hadn't met before, but willing to let the matter drop for now. _There'll be plenty of time to do a background check on Bay_, _especially_ _if the guy starts acting suspicious_. Great thing about his computer's ability to uplink to the satellite and connect to the database at CIA headquarters. Made his work lots easier. He shrugged again. "Guess not, then, unless it was in some past life." With a laugh, he shrugged off the odd sense of déjà vu.

Ardeth laughed, too, but inside he was anything but amused. Now there was another unknown added to the mix. Not for the first time, he wished that his grandfather were still alive. He could do with some advice right about now, and the wisdom and experience of the original bearer of his name.

* * *

Eliana peered out from behind the tent, nearly crumpling to the ground in relief when she saw not only her father, but Ardeth, as well. _Thank God! He had made it back!_ For a few seconds, she was simply overjoyed that both men had made it safely back to the camp through the treacherous jungle. But as she watched, it became apparent that something was not quite right. She watched as they spoke, the words muffled and indistinct, but their effect on her father clear. She saw the older man sink into the chair, assisted by Ardeth, saw the grief-stricken look on his face, watched as his head fell onto his hands. _What on earth had happened?_ She took a quick step forward, moving to step out of the concealing shadows and go to her father. Her momentum, though, was abruptly halted when Imhotep wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her back against him. She glared at him from over her shoulder, hissing out a warning. "Okay, enough of this skulking around! There's something wrong here, and I need to find out what it is! So let go of me!"

If anything, his grip on her tightened fractionally. A grim look on his face, the priest shook his head, holding a finger to his lips in warning and then pointing towards the jungle behind Ardeth and Bernstein. Eliana looked in the direction he indicated, and saw the green wave that signaled the approach of someone…or something. She froze, watching as the emerald wall of the jungle came apart directly behind Ardeth and her father, crashing down in a great clump onto the floor, clearing the way for…for a man? A man straight out of the most recent Banana Republic catalog, by the look of him.

Eliana watched as the stranger approached her father and Ardeth, saw her father stand slowly, reaching out a hand to accept the newcomer's greeting. She remained hidden, her back pressed up against Imhotep, her waist still held in his protective grip. But she leaned out, pulling against him, straining even harder to hear the words passing between the group of men. She shook her head in frustration. Nothing…she was too far away. The only thing she'd managed to catch was a disjointed word here and there—journalist, New York, GPS, chopper, and a name…_Connelly_. For some reason, the name sent a tingle of fear down her back, and she turned to Imhotep, noticing for the first time how still he had gone, how rigid his arm around her waist had become. "Imhotep?" she whispered, the tiny shard of fear beginning to take root and grow.

He didn't answer her at first; indeed, he had almost not heard her whisper his name, so transfixed was he at the sight of the man who had stepped out from the jungle. He couldn't believe his eyes. The coloring was a little different, the hair similar, but not exact, but the height and build were almost one and the same. And the look of intelligence and determination on the man's face was a clean replica—absolutely identical. He stared at the two men standing beside Eliana's father, and had he not known otherwise, he would have sworn that he had been thrown back in time seventy years. The gods' sense of irony was inhumanely comical. Not only had they managed to bring back Ardeth Bay, one of the accursed Med Jai, but they had also arranged to have Imhotep's ultimate nemesis conveniently reborn and delivered to the scene as well. He stared at the man, watching as he and Ardeth Bay shook hands, and his arm involuntarily tightened its hold on Eliana's waist, making her gasp. "Imhotep?" she asked again, now becoming really alarmed. "What is it? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost. Do you know this person?"

He shook his head, almost as if to clear his eyes. When he looked at her again, the familiar composed mask had slipped back over his features. He nodded, answering her question in the affirmative. "Yes, I know him. Or rather, I know who he once was…"

Eliana felt her mouth drop open in surprise. _Who he once was? Then that would mean…_ "You mean, you knew him before? In a previous life?" Just to be sure they were talking about the same man, as if there could be any doubt, she added, "Connelly?"

A grim smile played around the corners of the priest's mouth as he glanced back at the group of men. He had not heard the man's name, as Eliana had. "Connelly. That is almost amusing." He looked back at Eliana, and she could see the shadows in his eyes. "His name may be Connelly now, but when I knew him last, he was called by another." Almost as if he couldn't help himself, he felt his gaze pulled back to the newcomer. No, there could be no mistake. They were one and the same. And the old name came back to him, as if it could have ever been forgotten. "_O'Connell…_"

"Is he dangerous? Should I warn my father about him? If he's a threat to any of us…" He stopped the flow of words with a hand to her lips and a shake of the head.

"No. He is no danger to your father, or to the dig. If he is anything like the person he was in his other life, he is a man of…honor." That last word stuck in his throat, but he grudgingly forced it out. No matter that they had always been on opposite sides of whatever battle was being fought, a part of Imhotep recognized and respected the rock-solid code of honor that Rick O'Connell had always lived by. He could only assume that in this life, the man would be no different. But Eliana did deserve a word of warning. "Be on your guard. Like the Med Jai, this man has been no friend to me. To us. But he is different than the Med Jai. He is less attuned to the mystical, less believing of what is hidden to the eye and known only to the soul. His strength lies in his instinctive intelligence and in his warrior's heart." He looked at her appraisingly. "In this incarnation, at least, you should understand that. He is as distrustful of the supernatural as you are. But perhaps, in the end, more accepting of it."

Eliana opened her mouth to protest his lumping her in with a man he obviously considered an enemy, if not a direct threat. But he continued, silencing her before she began. "O'Connell—Connelly—will most probably not remember his past, much as you do not. That should keep you safe. Even if he _does_ remember, he will not recognize you as Anck-su-namun." His eyes swept over her. "The changes are too profound, unless one is familiar enough with your aura…" He didn't have to finish the thought; Eliana could complete it for him.

"Like you are. Like the Med Jai are, as well." She couldn't keep the bitterness from bleeding through. Imhotep had known her because of their relationship as lovers all those centuries ago. Ardeth knew her because his forebears had condemned her. He nodded.

"Connelly is no threat to you. But if he remembers me, or if the Med Jai decides to enlist his aid…" Eliana shivered. This was becoming too real, too frightening. She had somehow been caught on the wrong side of a war she didn't even remember. Wasn't she supposed to be one of the good guys? Or were good and bad only relative measures in this particular war? Eliana heard the hint of arrogance in his voice as the priest continued. "I am not afraid of the man, not even if I am mortal. But his remembering would make my task that much more difficult…"

"What can we do, Imhotep? I don't want you to be in any danger, but what other choice do we have?" She twisted around to face him, her hands splayed over his chest, her eyes wide and full of concern. He let his arm fall from around her waist, and she felt him stiffen and tense at the nameless emotion she knew was in her eyes. She stepped back, shuttering her face. "I know how important it is to you to complete this mission of yours and be gone…"

He relaxed slightly and stepped away from her. "It is the only reason I am here, Eliana. And it will be completed." He thought for a moment, watching the men appraisingly. "For now, Connelly is not my primary concern. The Med Jai is. Ardeth Bay is my biggest obstacle. He must either be removed, or neutralized, or…" Seeing the unmistakable horror in Eliana's face at his clinical analysis of disposing of Ardeth Bay, Imhotep laughed softly. "Or perhaps I can simply talk to him and convince him that I am no longer a threat. After all, when I have finished my work, he will be well and truly rid of me…"

Eliana bowed her head, relieved that he was no longer talking as if he planned to assassinate Ardeth, but saddened at his unflinching determination to die. Every time he spoke of it, she felt as though a little piece of her soul had shriveled up and broken away. Already, in just two days, he had become too much a part of her life, too important to her, too… She stopped the thought, unwilling to go where it would inevitably lead. Maybe she should be _glad_ that he would soon be gone. Maybe she should _help_ him complete his task. Maybe once he was gone, she could get her life back.

Eliana turned back towards the men. Odd, how the thought of going back to the way things had been, just last month, just last week, held absolutely no appeal to her, except for the safety and security it represented. Odd, and disturbing. It wouldn't do to dwell on the matter.

Her senses still too finely attuned to the man behind her, she spoke without looking at him. "So, if you're going to talk to Ardeth, should we get this over with, then? If you're going to cure Eric somehow, we better introduce you to my father…"

He heard the distance in her voice, and just managed to stop himself from reaching out a hand to pull her back against him, instead curling it into a fist at his side. He forced himself to concentrate on the group of men in the clearing. There was no future here for him—just an inescapable, unavoidably huge past that loomed everywhere, overshadowing and overpowering the present. Somehow, by the grace of the gods, he would accomplish this, and be free of it, once and for all. He followed Eliana at a distance, a dark specter haunting her footsteps, as she walked out from behind the tent and into the clearing.

* * *

Ardeth saw them first, his eyes widening, his hand automatically dropping to the hilt of his sword. He gently laid a hand on Bernstein's arm, turning the older man around, nodding in Eliana's direction.

Bernstein sagged in relief when he saw Eliana coming towards him. He didn't even notice the man following behind her. Running the remaining distance, he wrapped his daughter in a fierce hug, picking her up off her feet and swinging her around like he had done when she was a child. "Ellie!" he cried, a tremor in his voice. "You made it! Thank God!"

Eliana hugged him back, burying her face in his shoulder, closing her eyes in relief. She had been worried about him, too, and the fact that they were both here, unharmed, was almost too much to have asked for. "I'm here, Dad—I'm so sorry to have worried you…"

He put her away from him, wiping one hand over his face, scraping away the tears that had formed when he realized his daughter was safely returned to him. "You scared me half to death, Ellie! I thought you were with Ardeth, but when he came back alone…" He pulled her back into his arms, hugging her tightly.

This time, Eliana broke away from him, turning her green gaze on Ardeth. Her voice, when she spoke to him, was cool, although she didn't mean for it to be. "I'm glad you made it back, Ardeth." He nodded, his dark features reflecting their usual calm, although she could see the question in his eyes. "I'm sorry for whatever you went through in the jungle…"

Ardeth shook his head, dismissing the concern. "Do not be sorry. It was not your fault…" He glanced over her shoulder, and would have said more, but Bernstein interrupted him, throwing his arm around Eliana and pulling her towards Connelly, oblivious to anything but the fact that his daughter was back, safe and sound. Eliana threw Ardeth a glance, and he understood her meaning. He nodded at her, conceding to her wishes. He would bide his time, at least for now. His hand, though, remained on his sword.

"Come here, Ellie—we have a visitor. This is Matt Connelly, from the New York Times. He's a photojournalist. Wants to document the dig. Connelly, this is my daughter, Eliana. She's a linguist—one of her specialties is ancient languages."

Eliana tried not to cringe as Connelly took her reluctantly offered hand and gave it a firm shake. She was relieved when she felt nothing but a slight nausea at the contact. Smiling in a sickly parody of hospitality, she added her welcome to her father's. "Welcome to the dig, Mr. Connelly."

"Thanks. Been a real adventure, so far," he chuckled. If he had noticed anything unusual about her, or their handshake, Eliana was relieved to see that he showed absolutely no sign of it. Then, she saw that he was looking over the top of her head, and she stiffened, knowing that the moment of truth had arrived. His next words confirmed it. "So," he began, an impartial curiosity in his voice, "who's the bald guy?"

Slowly, Eliana turned, moving out from under her father's arm, holding out a hand to Imhotep, gesturing for him to come forward, trying not to notice when he studiously ignored her, his dark gaze locked on Ardeth's. Although Connelly had spoken, it was unquestionably Ardeth Bay that the priest was focused on, and Eliana stepped between the two men, trying unsuccessfully to diffuse the tension that crackled between them. She cleared her throat, and plunged into the introduction, unconsciously using her native English.

"Dad, Ardeth, Mr. Connelly, I'd like you to meet a…a friend of mine. He helped me get out of the pyramid and find my way back here." She paused, a frown twisting her features, not certain of how to continue. She wasn't sure whether or not to use his real name, and there was the language barrier…

Bernstein glanced at Eliana, not sure what to make of her uncharacteristic awkwardness. But if this was the man who had helped return his daughter to the camp, he was in his debt. Stepping forward, he reached out, taking Imhotep's hand in his. The priest turned to face the older man, temporarily taking his eyes off the Med Jai. "I am very happy to meet you, and grateful to you as well. Thank you for helping Eliana get back here."

Imhotep accepted the contact, gripping the man's hand in return, sensing the emotion that had prompted the gesture. Bernstein stared at him, clearly expecting him to make some reply. He could make no sense of the words the older man had spoken, though, and turned to Eliana, the look on his face coming as close to helplessness as he would allow. She nodded, telling him without words that she understood. "Dad," she explained. "He doesn't speak English. He's Egyptian."

Comprehension dawned on Bernstein's face, and he switched effortlessly to Arabic. "Well, Ellie, why didn't you say so in the first place?" Before she could stop him, he turned to Imhotep again. "Welcome to the camp. I am in your debt…" Confused again at the obvious lack of understanding on the man's face, her father broke off, looking at Eliana in puzzlement. "You said Egyptian, right?"

Her scattered wits finally began to function again, and she spoke, this time in Hebrew. "He is Egyptian, yes, but from a…from a rather distant part." _About three thousand years distant._ "The dialect is very…different…from Arabic. He speaks Hebrew fluently, though…"

If this puzzled Bernstein, he was too gracious to comment on it. Again switching languages, he turned once again to the tall man whose hand he still gripped. "Thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping my daughter return here."

Imhotep nodded, glancing at Eliana. "It was fortunate for both of us that our paths crossed. Your daughter helped me, as well." He ignored the snort that emanated from Ardeth, instead focusing on the archaeologist.

Bernstein glanced at Eliana, and his scientist's curiosity began to come back to him. "Ellie helped you? How? And what were you doing, wandering around the dig, anyway?" Grateful though he was, there was an edge to his voice. He was still fiercely protective of the site, and it bothered him that someone could have managed to travel so close to the camp and reach the pyramid itself without even being discovered. And why had the man been at the pyramid, anyway, instead of coming straight to the camp and introducing himself?

Eliana watched her father closely, and could tell from his expression what was going through his mind. She jumped in, hoping that the story she was concocting would satisfy him. Glancing at Ardeth before beginning, hoping that he would remain silent, she began to spin the almost-truth. "Dad, he wasn't wandering around the dig. He came here from…Egypt…to see if he could help with the dig. He's very interested in ancient Egyptian lore. A scholar of sorts, you could say…" She stopped, waiting to see if her father bought the story, watching for the Med Jai's reaction.

Ardeth said nothing, although when he looked at her, his dark eyes were filled with a sort of sad resignation. He knew, of course, that this whole story was sheer fabrication, and the fact that she would lie to her father proved how much under Imhotep's influence she was already. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but for now, he didn't feel inclined to use the weapon. There was something about the ludicrousness of this whole situation that aroused his curiosity. His eyes moved to where Imhotep stood, calm and still, and it occurred to him to wonder why, if The Creature wanted something here, he did not just use his powers to take it. And then he remembered Imhotep's words in the pyramid. _I am no more Creature than you. The curse has been lifted…_ Could it be?_ Had Amun-Re himself freed the priest from the curse? But why? And even if that were the case, what was he doing here? What did he want?_ And then his eyes cut to Eliana, and he wondered. The cursed priest had always been single-minded in his devotion to the woman. Was that it? After all these centuries, after all that had happened seventy years ago, was she still the reason for the priest's continued presence here, even if the curse had truly been lifted by the great god himself? Or was there something else?

The Med Jai reflected on that for a moment, watching as Bernstein weighed Eliana's explanation, his desire to believe his daughter and his gratitude towards the man who had helped her clearly in conflict with his obvious reluctance to accept yet another stranger into the dig. The story Eliana had told was flimsy, at best, and Ardeth knew from the look in her eyes that she knew it. He wondered if Bernstein could see it there, as well.

In the end, though, the archaeologist's gratitude outweighed his doubts, and he turned to Imhotep again. "Well, from what Eliana has said," and he threw her a frustrated look, "I'm not sure if you're a fellow archaeologist or not, but the fact is that you can't leave, anyway, now that you're here. Quarantine," he reminded Eliana, and included Connelly in his sweeping gaze. "We've got a very sick man in the camp, and until the doctors arrive and figure out what ails him, we can't let anyone out of the camp. Not supposed to let anyone _in_, either, but you all just keep showing up…" He raked a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration.

He looked at both Connelly and Imhotep, his next words intended for them both, and he switched between English and Hebrew, so both men could understand. "Welcome to Ahm Shere. Welcome to the dig. Obviously, you're both staying here for a while. Pitch in and help where you can. Connelly, feel free to photograph anything, but please use your head and have some discretion. And you…" He broke off, realizing that he didn't know the other man's name.

Eliana realized it too, and stepped forward, her brain working furiously to come up with a suitable alias for Imhotep. But the priest had already decided the matter, and moved between her and her father. He was tired of hiding in the shadows, tired of going about pretending to be something he was not, tired of being He Who Shall Not Be Named. If nothing else about this whole façade could be real, at least his name would be. "My name is Imhotep."

Bernstein gave him an odd look. "_Imhotep_? As in _the_ Imhotep? Grand Vizier to Pharaoh Zoser? Architect of the step pyramids of Saqqara? Your parents must have had grand plans for you to give you that name…"

Imhotep smiled. He had no idea what name he had been given by his parents, if indeed they had named him at all. His earliest memories were of the temple. He had been brought there before he was weaned, a mere babe, left as a living offering to the god. The priests and acolytes of Osiris were the only family he had ever known. But Eliana's father had correctly deduced the origin of his name. It had been given to him in the traditional naming ceremony by the old high priest, before his life had been dedicated in service to the god as a temple acolyte. The old man had spoken the words, bestowed the name, and firmly admonished the child to live up to the promise of the name he had been given. Imhotep had accepted the appellation, and heeded the words, proud of the honor that had been imparted with the name. Of what he had been known as before that, he had no memory, nor did he care. "Indeed, he was my namesake."

Bernstein returned the smile, and clapped the priest on the arm. Imhotep tried not to reveal how disconcerted he was by the man's familiarity. "Well, son, if you're half the man the original Imhotep was, we're fortunate to have you here. Maybe you'll bring us some luck. We could use some, right about now…" He turned to Ardeth and Connelly, speaking again in English. "Ardeth, Connelly, meet our newest visitor…"

None of the men spoke, and Eliana could feel the tension building among the little group. Ardeth stood in stony silence, watching the priest, who simply stared impassively at the other two, a hint of arrogance in the tilt of his head, the arch of his brow. Finally, Connelly moved forward, extending a hand. "Imhotep, huh? I'm Matt Connelly. Photojournalist from the New York Times. Welcome to the Brigadoon of Africa." Surprisingly, he spoke in near perfect Hebrew, and when he saw their startled looks, he laughed. "You tend to pick up a few languages when you travel around as much as I do."

Although he gave no outward sign of it, Connelly noticed Imhotep's reluctance to return the handshake, and the cold haughtiness in the man's eyes when he finally did so. _Okay, so here's another one to check out,_ thought Connelly, mentally making a list. _And while I'm at it, I'm gonna do a little check on the daughter, too._ It was obvious that Bernstein's kid was hiding something. That story she had told didn't hold much water for all the holes in it, and a blind man could see that she was wound up tighter than a spring, besides. There were enough secrets around here to keep him busy for quite a while. And if there was one thing Matt Connelly liked, it was a challenge.

Bernstein noticed Ardeth's unusual rudeness towards the stranger, and made a mental note to ask him about it later. For now, though, he wanted to talk to his daughter in private, and find out what had really happened out there. It was obvious he would be getting no explanations from her as long as all of the rest of them were there. "Ardeth, can you give these two a hand in finding a place to stay? There ought to be a couple of extra tents and blankets in the supplies. Hopefully Sabir has rounded everything up again. If you could help them out, I'd appreciate it. I need to talk to Eliana for a minute."

Ardeth looked at Bernstein and nodded. For now, he would go along with this charade. For now, he would bide his time and watch, use the opportunity to try to figure out what Imhotep's goal was. The knowledge could only help him to defeat The Creature, to return him to whatever hell Eliana had brought him back from. But he would be watching his back. And he would watch Eliana's as well.

"This way." He gestured for Connelly and Imhotep to precede him. It was no great surprise to anyone that he also spoke Hebrew fluently.

Eliana watched the three men walk away, and tried to shake the strange feeling that had come over her. The last couple of days had felt surreal enough, but watching those three walk off together was somehow beyond bizarre. If she had been able to see into either Ardeth's or Imhotep's minds, she would have realized that they agreed wholeheartedly. Connelly, of course, while suspicious of the other two, was blessedly oblivious to just how strange a turn his life had suddenly taken.

Finally, Eliana and her father were alone in the clearing, and with a sigh, she turned to face him. Now would come the real test. She'd never been able to pull the wool over his eyes for too long before. She could only hope that her skills in subterfuge had improved dramatically since they'd last been put to the trial. Trying to look as blandly guiltless as possible, she met her father's steely blue gaze with her own green one.

"All right, Ellie. Now that we're alone, here, why don't you drop the act and tell me what's really going on?"

* * *

Eliana managed to evade most of her father's questions, sticking to the same general story she had told before. Imhotep had found her inside the pyramid, while he, too, had been exploring. They had managed to escape, had seen Ardeth briefly, and had spent the rest of the day, night, and next morning trying to find their way back to the camp. Yes, they had run into some of the vicious little Pygmies. No, they had not seen any of the missing laborers.

To his specific questions about Imhotep's background and identity, she was as vague as possible. He was from Egypt, but he spoke only Hebrew, and he was well versed in the ancient Egyptian culture and history, particularly the New Kingdom period. Beyond that, she told her father, she knew little more than he did. She did mention that Imhotep had seemed interested in Eric's illness, and seemed to have a good grasp of medical concepts. It was possible that at one time or another, he might have been a doctor or a traditional healer of some sort, but she really wasn't certain. She crossed her fingers at that, hoping that Imhotep wouldn't be angry with her for letting her father in on that little piece of knowledge.

"Damn it, Ellie! We know next to nothing about the man!" His frustration was obvious.

"You know that he saved my life in the pyramid, don't you? That he kept me safe all the while we were in the jungle? That he risked his own life to protect me from the little beasts that _your_ capstone turned loose?" She glared at her father, capable of being every bit as stubborn as he was. "So he has a few secrets. So what? You accepted Connelly readily enough…"

"Connelly's…different, Eliana. It's hard to explain." Bernstein sighed. It _was_ hard to explain. He had immediately liked the young journalist—liked him and trusted him. This Imhotep was another matter entirely. Of course, he was grateful to the man for keeping Eliana safe. But beyond that, there was an air of danger about him—a dark shadow of secrecy that went well beyond the mystery of his background and his still largely unexplained interest in the dig. He couldn't help but feel that the man was a danger to them all—perhaps especially to Eliana. "Look," Bernstein went on, "I just want to protect the dig, and protect you. I can't help it if I don't quite trust the man."

Eliana put a hand on her father's arm. "I know that this is a big request, okay? But I'm asking you to trust _me_, all right? _I_ trust him, and I know that he has no interest in harming any of us, or the dig."

Bernstein looked at her dubiously, and appeared ready to argue the point, but at that moment, the team from the World Health Organization finally put in an appearance, crashing inelegantly through the brush, panting and cursing as they dragged their equipment in from the general direction of the pyramid. From the looks of the group, they had run all the way. Bernstein cocked an eyebrow at Eliana, nodding towards the group.

"We can discuss this later, Ellie. I think that the cavalry has just arrived."

* * *

Eliana looked dubiously at the wheezing, panting group, and shook her head. "God help us all," she said, finally.

Once they had caught their breath and gotten their bearings, the doctors and lab technicians from the World Health Organization seemed a bit more professional, a bit more in control of the situation. There were eight of them in total—three doctors, two nurses, two lab techs, and a harried-looking man who appeared to be in charge of everything else, including keeping the equipment organized. They took a few minutes to talk quietly with each other before looking around and noticing Bernstein and Eliana.

A tall, distinguished-looking man with iron-colored hair and a graying beard separated himself from the group and walked towards Bernstein, straightening out his wrinkled clothing as he did so. Reaching them, he extended a hand. "You must be John Bernstein. I am Dr. Jacques Robillard, from the World Health Organization. You are expecting us?"

Bernstein nodded, shaking the man's hand. "Yes. We weren't sure when you'd arrive, but we have been looking for you. Glad you made it." Giving the group another glance, he added, "Uh, exactly how _did_ you make it? Did you walk all the way from the edge of the jungle?"

Robillard shook his head. "No. Our helicopter landed near the pyramid. The pilot was wary of doing so, but I was able to convince him. We simply had too much equipment to drag it all the way to this camp from the jungle's edge. We left most of our things back at the pyramid, in fact. Brought only what we knew we'd need along with us."

"I see," Bernstein nodded. "You were able to find us easily enough, then?"

"Thank God for modern technology," Robillard explained. "We had your GPS coordinates, and followed them. But what is going on here? We were told to expect desert conditions, not a rain forest…"

"It's a long story," Bernstein ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it even more. "I'll fill you in on the details in a minute." He put an arm around Eliana, pulling her forward, introducing her to the doctor. Then, with an apologetic smile, "Eliana, could you please go and find Callie? I'm sure she'll want to meet Dr. Robillard, here, and the rest of his team."

"Sure, dad. I'll be right back."

* * *

Eliana found Callie near Eric's tent, as she had expected. The young doctor was just removing the protective equipment she wore while examining him, and Eliana watched from a distance, waiting until Callie was cleaned up and organized before approaching her. She admired the dedication that Callie obviously had towards her profession, and appreciated the genuine caring that she seemed to feel towards Eric, but the woman had always made her uncomfortable for some reason. They had met only briefly the day Callie arrived, and their paths hadn't crossed much since then, but there was something about the doctor that set Eliana on edge. It wasn't that Callie was unfriendly, for that wasn't the case at all—she was pleasant enough, in a retiring sort of way—it was just a strange feeling that Eliana had, and couldn't shake. But Eric was being cared for, that was the important thing, and she pushed away all the rest, willing to ignore it for his sake.

"Doctor al Faran? Callie?"

Callie looked towards Eliana, a small frown on her face. The discomfort between the two women seemed to be mutual. "Yes?"

"The World Health Organization team has arrived. They're with my father right now," Eliana explained. "He sent me to find you."

"Thank goodness!" Callie breathed, her relief almost palpable.

Eliana tensed, worried immediately about Eric. If Callie was this relieved at having more doctors appear, he must not be getting any better. "Eric? Is he….?"

Callie shook her head. "He's still holding on, but I don't know for how much longer. His condition appears to be deteriorating a little bit more with each passing hour. I'll be happy to have a second opinion on this…"

Eliana cast a quick glance at the closed flap of Eric's tent. Her heart went out to the man inside. Life could be so unfair. Eric was too young, too full of energy and curiosity to be this ill. But life had a way of being both unfair and cruel at times. She gestured in the direction of the clearing where her father waited with the medical team. "Let's go, then. Maybe these people can help him."

* * *

"What? You want us to move the entire camp to the pyramid?" Bernstein's face was growing red, and his voice was edging upwards. "Do you know what that will entail? Why can't you just bring everything here?"

Robillard was unmoved. "The bulk of our equipment is back at the pyramid. We left it there on purpose. That structure is much more suited for use as a field hospital, of sorts, than this camp is. If we relocated to the pyramid, we'd be sheltered from the elements, and we'd have better protection from some of the other, um, _elements_ of the jungle." Robillard and his group had not encountered any of the Pygmies on their way to the camp, but Bernstein's brief explanation of Ahm Shere's reappearance, and some of the more interesting aspects of the newly grown jungle, had convinced him that his original plan was the right way to proceed.

Bernstein, however, was _not_ convinced. "You intend to turn a major archaeological discovery into a field hospital?" His indignation was apparent.

"I don't care if you've discovered Noah's Ark. That pyramid is the best place to take care of the sick man, and set up a laboratory. And isn't it also where you first found the possible contaminant? Having easy access to the source of the infection, as long as it's well contained, is important."

Callie, who had arrived moments before with Eliana, put her hand on Bernstein's arm. "Dr. Robillard does have a point, Professor Bernstein. The pyramid does sound more secure than the open jungle. And the fluid from the statue is located in the pyramid, in the grotto. As long as we keep that area under total quarantine, it would be helpful to be near it, for analysis."

Bernstein, for once, seemed to have met his match in the combined logic and stubbornness of Callie and the French doctor. With a sigh, he capitulated. "All right; when?"

"Well, today would be ideal…" Robillard mused.

"Impossible," Bernstein shot it down immediately. "It's midday already, and by the time we got everything packed up and ready to go, it would be evening. That jungle is dangerous enough in broad daylight. I will_ not_ have my people go trekking through it at night."

Robillard could see the logic in that. And moving the camp the next morning would not necessarily be a bad idea. That way, he would have a chance to examine the sick man this afternoon, and get an idea of what they were up against. He nodded, agreeing with Bernstein. "Tomorrow morning will be soon enough." Turning to Callie, he inquired, "Tell me, Dr. al Faran, is the patient stable enough to be moved?"

Callie thought for a few moments before replying. "He is stable, but his condition is quite serious. I think he could be safely moved, and certainly, the pyramid is a more protected environment for him, but we will need to monitor him closely during the relocation."

"Of course," Robillard agreed.

* * *

"Quite the little party you're having here, Bernstein," Connelly grinned, as he helped himself to a lukewarm soft drink in the makeshift tent that was now serving as the dining hall. It was really just a tarp strung between a couple of the larger palm trees, but it would have to do for the time being. The original mess tent waved in the breeze, still caught high above them in the branches of the towering palm tree.

"Don't even remind me of what a farce this dig has turned into, Connelly," growled the archaeologist, getting a drink for himself, and plopping down tiredly in a chair. The medical people were off setting up some of their equipment, getting ready to examine Eric. Callie had gone with them. Eliana sat quietly across from him, lost in her own thoughts. Ardeth Bay and the Egyptian, Imhotep, were nowhere in sight. Bernstein hoped that they were off helping Sabir get ready to move, and not killing each other. He could tell from the moment he saw the two of them together that there was no love lost between them. And even _that_ was an understatement. It was almost as if they knew each other… But Ardeth had denied that, when Bernstein had managed to catch him alone for a few minutes earlier in the afternoon. Not that Bernstein necessarily _believed_ Bay, but he wasn't about to press the issue, not right now. For now, they had enough to worry about.

He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes and took a drink of the warm soda, glancing briefly at Eliana. Suddenly, he saw her straighten in her chair, watched as the life came back into her eyes. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Bay and the Egyptian walking towards them. Glancing back at Eliana, he sighed. He wasn't quite sure which of the men had caused that reaction in her, but he had a pretty good hunch, and he wasn't at all sure that he liked where it was pointing. He liked Bay well enough, but the other man… He reminded himself that the Egyptian had helped bring his daughter back safely to the camp, and decided to let the matter rest. It was probably just gratitude he had seen in her eyes, anyway…

"We have nearly finished packing the supplies," Ardeth informed them, pouring a glass of water for himself. He ignored the man behind him, leaving Imhotep to fetch his own drink. "We will be starting on the storage tents next."

"Thank you, Ardeth," said Bernstein. "And you, too," he offered, nodding in Imhotep's direction. The priest nodded unsmilingly, drinking deeply from the cup he held. Bernstein watched as the tall, bronze-skinned man stared into the cup he had just drunk from, looking at the clear liquid as though it were the first time he had drunk water. _He is a strange one_, thought the archaeologist, shaking his head before looking back at Ardeth.

"I am happy to help," Ardeth offered. Looking towards Connelly, he stared curiously at the photographic equipment spread out on the table. "Have you managed to get any of the photos you wanted?"

"Nah, not yet," Connelly stated. "Just cleaning the stuff up a bit. I'm gonna scout around a little this afternoon, see if there's anything worth shooting here at the camp. For sure, I'll be taking pictures tomorrow, when we move the camp. And of course, there's the pyramid…"

"Of course," Bernstein interjected, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "The pyramid. The Hilton of Ahm Shere."

"You don't think much of those docs, do you, Bernstein?" Connelly asked, grinning at the older man. "I haven't even met them yet, but from the sounds of it, they're a pretty opinionated bunch. Then again, every doctor I've ever met has been nothing but _opinionated_…"

"As if journalists _aren't_ opinionated?" Callie's voice reached them from the edge of the tent. In unison, everyone turned to face her. She had approached silently, not announcing her presence.

Bernstein smiled, suppressing a wider grin that threatened to spill over his face. "Uh, Connelly, I'd like you to meet our resident doctor, Khalida al Faran."

Callie's smile was wide as she stepped forward. "Call me Callie," she said, reaching out to take the hand he offered. Connelly gripped her hand, and for a moment his eyes registered confusion, then bewilderment, and then something else—some other, more elusive emotion. She stared at him, the same odd assortment of reactions flickering over her face. Finally, with a mental shake, she released his hand, surreptitiously wiping her hand on the leg of her pants, as though her palm itched. "Um, is there any soda?"

Connelly jumped backwards, almost leaping for the cooler, toppling over his chair as he did so. He flipped open the top and pawed through the cans inside before finally selecting one and offering it to her. "This okay?"

She looked at him oddly. "Yes, it's my favorite…" She reached out to take it from him, but at that moment, the can slipped from both their hands, falling to the ground. The impact forced open the flip top, and the carbonated beverage, jostled already, began spewing everywhere. Both Connelly and Callie jumped back, trying futilely to avoid the fizzing spray.

Wiping at the sticky mess that covered her from head to foot, Callie shot an annoyed glance at Connelly. "Well, that made my afternoon…"

Connelly shrugged, having the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry, I thought you had it…"

"I thought _you_ did," she said, still trying in vain to clean off her trousers. By now, the liquid had soaked through completely. "Good grief," she muttered, under her breath.

"Hey, don't feel so bad," Connelly offered, swiping at the mess on his own clothes. "Everyone has a clumsy moment, now and then…"

"I am _not_ clumsy," Callie fumed, glaring at him. Disgusted, she turned to Bernstein, "Sorry, Professor, I wanted to fill you in on what the World Health Organization doctors were doing with Eric. I hope you don't mind, though—I'd like to change first."

Waving her off with a bemused expression on his face, Bernstein reassured her. "Don't worry, Callie, we're not going anywhere. Take your time."

Throwing the American another glare, Callie stomped off towards her own tent.

"I guess that wasn't the best first impression I've ever made," Connelly sighed, sitting back down. He, unlike Callie, simply ignored the discomfort of his wet clothes.

Bernstein shook his head. "I'd venture to guess it wasn't, either," he agreed.

* * *

Imhotep watched the whole exchange in silence. He had recognized the doctor at once, of course, the moment she had entered the tent, and although he was shocked, he was not completely surprised. What was one more bizarre coincidence when added to the strangeness of the entire situation? He watched, genuinely interested, as she and Connelly were introduced for the first time. _In this life_, he added mentally, his mind wandering back to the last time he had seen them. They looked much the same now, although this time, the woman seemed to show her original Egyptian heritage more strongly.

The exchange between the doctor and the American lasted for only a few minutes, and Imhotep couldn't understand their words, but he could certainly comprehend the circumstances. They generated the same sparks as always, and again, as he had the last time he had seen them, during Ahm Shere's violent death throes, he almost envied them. _So they were to have a chance for another lifetime together_, he reflected, and before he could help himself, his eyes drifted to Eliana. She had been watching him, puzzled at the expression on his face as he watched the other two, and raised an eyebrow at him, questioning him silently.

But seeing Connelly with the woman had brought back the other memories, the painful ones, the ones he tried to keep locked away, and he turned away from Eliana, a curtain dropping over his features. Hurt, she turned away as well, and standing, made her way out of the tent, heading off to find Sabir.

Ardeth watched her go, then glanced at Imhotep. He saw how the priest had watched the American and the doctor, and he had witnessed the brief exchange between The Creature and Eliana. Something had triggered that, and he would find out what it was. There was much more going on beneath the surface here than he was aware of, his Med Jai instincts notwithstanding, and it was up to him to dig deep enough to uncover it. There was too much at stake for him to ignore even the most harmless exchange, and from the look on The Creature's face, this had been much more than that. Making a mental note to meet the doctor himself, and to follow up on his own strange sense about Connelly, Ardeth reached for another glass of water. There would be time for that later. For now, the most important thing he could do was to keep an eye on The Creature.

* * *

Dinner was over, dusk had fallen over the quiet of the surrounding jungle, and the camp was finally settling down after the hectic afternoon. Once the decision had been made to break camp and relocate to the pyramid, everyone had been swept into a flurry of activity. The supplies had been packed and assembled, everything stored away for tomorrow's move. All that was left for Sabir and his helpers to stow away was what had been used to prepare the evening meal.

The tents being used by the group had been left standing as well. At sunrise, they would be torn down by the workers and readied for relocation. Their lightweight construction would make that job fairly easy. The only thing remaining now was for each individual to pack his or her own belongings.

Eliana reached for the flap of her tent, wanting to get the job over and done with as soon as possible. She was tired and sweaty, and felt inexplicably alone. Or maybe the feeling wasn't that inexplicable, after all. She had felt that way ever since she and the priest had returned to the camp and joined the rest of the group. Ever since then, except for those brief moments in the makeshift mess tent, she and Imhotep had been pulled apart, separated by chores and circumstances, and they had only really crossed paths at dinner. Even then, there was no time for her to talk with him, or even be near him. She sat by her father, the other archaeologists, and Connelly, and although she had invited Imhotep to join them, he had declined, preferring to eat the evening meal alone. Ardeth, too, was absent, and Eliana wondered vaguely where he had gone. The only other people in the tent were the medical personnel and Callie, who ate at a different table, and the students. The Sudanese, as usual, were absent, as were most of the laborers, who preferred to eat around a fire on the edge of the camp. Dinner had passed in a tasteless blur, and Eliana had been relieved when it was finally over.

Nothing seemed right anymore, nothing seemed the same or familiar, and Eliana's mood reflected that discord. With a disgruntled sigh, she pulled at the zipper.

"Eliana." The voice came out of the deepening shadows, its husky timbre instantly recognizable. She spun around, her heart jarring into a faster rhythm, her breath coming faster. She tried not to notice that the colors and smells of the surrounding jungle were suddenly brighter, sharper, even through the gloom. It was all she could do to stop herself from breaking into a silly grin. So much for objectivity; so much for practicality. So much for guarding her emotions above all else.

"Imhotep?" It was a question, but she knew the answer already, and as his tall form separated itself from the twilight dark, she tried to keep her eyes from revealing too much of what her heart was feeling. "What is it?" Her voice was deliberately calm, purposely steady.

"Nothing is wrong, Eliana." He must have detected the slight quaver in her voice, anyway, despite her efforts. "I was simply checking to make sure you were safe." His eyes skimmed over her, and he noticed the slight tremble in her hand. "You are well?"

"I'm fine, Imhotep," she assured him, turning once more to the flap of her tent, tugging at the zipper. "Don't worry. I'll be safe for the night. Dad has guards posted all around the camp, and we'll be moving to the pyramid tomorrow. That should be even safer." For all of her efforts, she was unable to keep all the emotion out of her voice, and a hint of hurt worked its way out. Finally getting the recalcitrant zipper loosened, she moved to go inside. "You don't need to check on me. I'm sure you have other things to do."

A hand on her arm stopped her. "Eliana, wait." He watched her closely, seeing through the mask of calm she sought to keep in place. "Something is troubling you. What is it?"

_You! You're troubling me!_ Her heart screamed the words at him, but she firmly clamped her mouth shut. Shaking her head, she denied the sentiment. "Nothing's bothering me. I'm just tired, that's all." Risking a quick glance at him, she added, "How are you? Did you get something to eat? Did they find you someplace to sleep tonight?"

His smile was small, slightly ironic. "The food was…interesting. I had forgotten the sensation." _Another reminder of his past, another leftover from the curse._ "And I have been given shelter for the night. It is adequate." Another smile, this one smaller still. "The Med Jai has stopped dogging my footsteps as well, at least for now. I am fortunate, indeed."

She nodded. "Good."

Out of words, they said nothing, staring at each other until the silence grew too long, too uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke again. "You have the Scepter?"

She pointed towards the tent. "Yes—in there."

"Good." Once again, the silence stretched between them, taut and uneasy. He shifted his stance, clasping his hands behind his back, purposely creating a distance between them. He would not give in to his desire to take her in his arms, hold her through the night, protect her himself, no matter how overwhelming the compulsion. He wouldn't risk getting any closer to her than he had already. He could not afford to. He had made that mistake too many times. If she had the Scepter, she was safe. That was enough. It had to be. "Keep it with you. It will keep the…creatures…away." She knew that the word he had used to describe the Pygmies was a deliberate choice, a reminder to her of what he was, what he had been, and she nodded again.

"I'll do that."

With a nod, he was gone, turning away and walking off into the murky darkness. Eliana watched him go, the sense of loss inside her deepening with every step he took. Finally, the distance between them was great enough that he blended in seamlessly with the night, and she could see him no longer. She pushed her hair back behind her ear with a hand that shook only slightly, and with a sigh, stepped into the tent, turning on the lantern inside.

Imhotep turned slowly, knowing that he was out of her sight. Somberly, he watched the light come on inside her tent, saw her silhouetted against the nylon fabric, imagined her moving inside, packing her things. For a few seconds, he allowed himself to wonder what would happen if he went back, opened the tent flap, and stepped inside with her… A shudder went through him, and he hastily aborted the thought. _Why couldn't he let go of this obsession? Why? What power did she have over him?_ Knowing that there were no good answers to those questions, at least none that he wanted to hear, Imhotep forced himself to turn away, stalking off into the night like a leopard in search of prey.


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

_We shall be what we imagine though we know not yet what that may be. Blessed are we in eternal changing. Blessed are the creatures and gods of the earth, things of the air and water, flame from the fire._

_You and I are pure as dream, lasting as words. We were given the gift of becoming and the ways of it. After a time of forgetting, I come back to myself_

_I have looked into my heart and seen jealousy, pride and greed. I've seen fear and resistance to change. I have regretted the past and longed for the future, forgetting to notice the mountain of the present. But today, for this moment, I am here with you unburdened by thought and filled with joy. In this moment I regret nothing, for the paths I chose led me here. I offer you my life._

_--Excerpt from "Becoming One of the Ancients", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

For what had to be the half-dozenth time that night, Eliana rolled over in her sleeping bag, shifting her position and trying to thump her pillow into a more comfortable shape, one that might help her get some sleep. But it was useless. She was wide awake, and no matter how long she stared up at the lopsided, hastily patched ceiling of her tent, sleep was no closer than before. As they had been all evening, ever since his coolly aloof departure from her, her thoughts strayed to Imhotep. _What was he doing now? Was he comfortable? Was he able to sleep, as she was not? Had he been able to wipe her from his mind as easily as it seemed he had? Or did he lie in the dark somewhere, thinking of her, of them, of what had been…_

Eliana sat up, angry with herself, restless, keyed up and finally realizing that she would not be sleeping anytime soon. She shoved a hand through the auburn fall of hair that tumbled to her shoulders, pushing it back and lifting it from the back of her neck, holding it away from her so that the cooling breeze could reach her over-warm flesh.

Standing, she threw on the clothes she had discarded hours earlier, pulling on the jeans and loose shirt, shoving her bare feet into her shoes. The night was cool, so she rummaged through her duffel bag, finally pulling out a comfortable knee length sweater. The maroon duster was a bit impractical for an archeological dig, but it was one of her favorites, so she had brought it along. Now, snuggling into the soft, warm wool, she was glad she had for once given in to the out-of-character impulsivity. The sweater, however, no matter how soft, no matter how warm, was a poor substitute for the hard strength of the arms that had held her while she slept the night before, for the warmth of the smooth, bronze skin, for the unique, spicy scent of the man, for the security she felt in his presence…

_Stop it!_ Disgusted with herself, Eliana angrily pulled down the zippered tent flap, cursing to herself when it got stuck in the nylon fabric. After several angry tugs, she managed to get it loose, leaving a good-sized rip in the fabric. Muttering under her breath, she abandoned the tent, leaving it unzipped, open to the night air and whatever manner of jungle life might wander inside, uncaring right now about anything except outpacing her unruly emotions.

A thought stopped her, though, and she quickly slipped back inside, returning with the Scepter of Osiris clutched in her hand. No matter how much she wanted to get away from the camp, from her thoughts, there was no sense in stomping off into the jungle without at least some protection. And the Scepter had proven to be a most effective, if inexplicable, form of protection from the grisly natives.

For a moment, she stood there, face lifted into the night, feeling the soothing flow of air against her, closing her eyes to the night. _Where to go?_ Somewhere not too far, but far enough that she could put the thoughts of the dig and all its problems, and Imhotep, and all the unwanted feelings he engendered in her, completely out of her mind. Somewhere she could relax, close her eyes, just float into oblivion for a little while…

_Too bad there aren't any bathtubs out here_, she thought. _I could use a nice, hot bubble bath right about now…_ And then she opened her eyes, and a smile curved her lips, and she had her destination. Still smiling, she reached back into the tent, grabbed a towel, and headed off into the trees.

* * *

The dark-clad figure sat motionless at the edge of the camp, leaning back against a large boulder, staring out into the jungle. Even with a full moon, he was nearly invisible to all but the most observant watcher, sitting deep in the shadows of a towering palm tree, blending seamlessly into the night. Sleep had evaded him that night, too, and he, like Eliana, had finally forsaken the claustrophobic air inside the tent, seeking out the cool breeze outside. 

His thoughts were chaotic, his emotions on edge, and although he fought to center his mind, force down the turmoil in his soul, he was having little success. In the morning, he would accompany the female healer to the sick man's tent, and if the gods were willing, he would soon know whether this horrifying illness was indeed the plague Amun-Re had spoken of. And if it was, he would be that much closer to discharging his task and finally finding the peace that had evaded him for eons. Why that thought seemed to please him less and less as each hour passed disturbed him greatly. He had made his peace with his fate, he had accepted the bitter finality of his loss some seventy years ago, and that was the end of it. He would not allow it to _not_ be the end.

He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, a flash of color, and he caught his breath, recognizing her immediately. What would she be doing out here, alone, in the middle of the night? Had the woman no sense at all? Had the dangers they'd faced in the jungle left her completely unfazed? He watched, silent, unmoving, as she made her way through the edge of the camp, looking for the faint path they had made while coming in the previous day. Finding it, she ducked underneath a low-hanging vine, quickly making for the deep shadows of the forest.

He waited for a moment, then stood, his tall form detaching itself from the tree's shadow, a ghost in the darkness. Silently, swiftly, he followed her, keeping her in sight, but remaining hidden himself. This woman would be the death of him yet again, and that he was at all concerned over her welfare infuriated him. It was a foolish, sentimental weakness, and he was beginning to despise himself for it. But he continued down the path, a soundless specter, following her footsteps in the dark like a leopard stalks its prey. No matter that he was a fool for caring, he could not bring himself to let her go into the jungle alone.

* * *

The secluded grove that hid the hot spring was not far from the camp, and Eliana reached it quickly. Just as she had remembered, it was enclosed on three sides by the tall trees and brushy undergrowth, on the fourth by the craggy rock face. The small clearing was an enchantment, overhung with the mists that rose from the swirling water, scented with the fragrance of the white roses that grew there in wild profusion. It was a place out of time, separated from the real world by a gossamer veil of magic, kept free of the taint of Ahm Shere's murky origins by the power of some benevolent goddess. 

Eliana stepped into the clearing, and felt herself slip into the otherworldliness of the place, caught up by the magic and transported to another time, another place. She paused, breathing in the heavy scent of the roses, feeling the steamy heat rising from the pool, the smell of the hot springs adding the barest trace of a mineral overtone to the air. The sound of falling water reached her ears and her gaze followed the sound to its source—the small waterfall that cascaded down the cliff face and tumbled into the pool, mingling with the heat of the hot spring to form a warm, soothing bath.

Stepping forward to the edge of the pool, she knelt down and trailed her fingers through the warm water, letting the heat soak into her skin, letting the steam caress her face. The water's touch was soothing, calming, and she closed her eyes, letting the magic of the place seep into her. Finally, she removed her hand, wiping the dampness on the towel she had brought with her before spreading it out on the ground beside the water and laying the scepter beside it.

Normally, this kind of impulsivity was anathema to her nature, but tonight Eliana was not herself. The revelations and wonders of the past few days, combined with the stress of the trauma that now surrounded the dig, had weakened her inner defenses to the point where they were virtually useless. She was making her way in unfamiliar territory, charting a course through the wilderness of her own emotions, and the values and beliefs that she had always held dear were of no use in helping to guide her path. Indeed, they seemed to be consistently pushing her in the wrong direction.

Eliana removed the heavy sweater, glad to be rid of its warmth. The air here was balmy and moist, and she had no need for the garment. Hesitating for only a second, she kicked off her shoes, stripped off the tight jeans, and unbuttoned the oversized shirt. Although she doubted that she'd be disturbed here—no one in the camp seemed especially anxious to wander off into the jungle at night, for obvious reasons—she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder anyway, searching the shadows for any sign of unwanted company. Seeing nothing save the undulation of the foliage in the night breeze, Eliana slid out of the shirt as well, tossing it aside and feeling the warm air caress her exposed skin. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, crossing her arms over her breasts, and for a moment, her imagination conjured up the feel of warm hands sliding over bare flesh, and a shudder rippled through her body.

_That's what you came here to avoid thinking about_, she chided herself, shaking herself out of the reverie. _So get on with it_. Inserting a tentative toe into the warm water, Eliana tested the temperature. It was warm, but not too hot, and just the slightest bit effervescent. Stepping in, she found that the pool was fairly shallow, only knee-deep at the edge, and gradually deepening. She waded out to the center, where the water reached her waist, and slowly lowered herself into its bubbling warmth.

The water flowed around her, stroking against her skin, massaging away her tension with a gentle touch. In a smooth, gliding movement, she dived underneath the water, emerging a few feet away, shaking the water from her face. Her hair hung in heavy, wet tendrils down her back, gleaming sleekly in the moonlight. If she had had any doubts about coming here, they were gone now, as the moonlight and water cast their distinctive spell on her. She gave in to the moment, and turned on her back, floating peacefully, eyes closed, soaking in the heat, breathing in the scented air. _This must be what heaven feels like_, she thought, and her lips curved in a smile of pure delight.

* * *

Imhotep caught his breath, afraid to move, afraid to make a sound. His hand clenched around the clinging vine he had just lifted away, and every muscle in his body went rigid. _So this is where she had come_. He remembered how she had looked around the glade earlier in the day, when they had first discovered it. He had seen the wonderment in her eyes as she had drunk in the beauty of the place, had seen the look of longing as she gazed at the bubbling waters of the pool. The place had its own special aura about it, and he had noticed its otherworldly allure immediately. He knew that some spots on the earth were focal points for the elemental magic of nature, conduits for life's energy, and he would not be surprised at all to discover that this was one such location. Tearing his gaze away from her for a moment, he saw the scepter lying on the ground near the towel she had laid out, and realized that she had not come unprotected. She didn't need him here. With the scepter, she had as much protection as could be afforded her, by him or anyone else. 

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in his mouth, Imhotep reproached himself. He should have guessed her destination, should have realized where she would go, should never have followed her here… And then he admitted to himself that even if he had known her destination, her purpose, he would have come anyway. Especially if he had known.

He watched as the shirt slid down her arms, baring her ivory skin to the silvery wash of moonlight. He took in the curling mane of hair that fell loose around her shoulders, the curve of her waist, the slender length of her legs. He watched as she tipped her head back, eyes closed, exposing the long column of her neck, the classic beauty of her profile. Was it only his imagination, or had she seemed to shudder just then? The air was warm, hot almost, and the trembling would not have been from the cold. _What, then?_

He closed his eyes to the sight, fighting against the almost overpowering urge to go to her, unwilling to give in to it, unable to walk away. A long moment passed, and then he heard the water splash gently. She must have stepped into the pool. He opened his eyes again, telling himself that he would stay for just a minute more, just to make sure that she was safe within the depths of the pool. Then he would leave, return to the camp, and try to wipe the images from his mind, although he feared they were branded there forever.

He saw her dive, emerge again, and then stand, the warm water running in rivulets and streams down the hills and valleys of her body. He could imagine following those same paths with his hands, with his mouth… She shook the water from her face and hair, and he saw how the long curls hung down her back, weighted down by the dampness. His hands itched to lift the heavy mass of her hair, his fingers tangling in the curling tendrils… She turned to float on her back, and he went completely still, his body beginning to ache…

With a barely audible groan, he dragged his eyes away from her, dropping the vine, turning to go, and as he stepped backwards, not watching where he placed his feet, he stepped on a fallen branch, snapping it in two. The sound was as loud as a gunshot.

* * *

Eliana shot up from where she floated in the pool, her feet scrabbling for traction on the slick surface of the pool bottom, her arms instinctively covering her breasts. Her eyes were huge pools of green in a face suddenly gone pale. Her heart seemed to stop, and then began racing, thundering in her ears, and she couldn't seem to catch her breath. Who was out there? _What_ was out there? _Oh, God, why hadn't she allowed her usual cautious nature to guide her actions tonight, instead of giving in to this insane urge…_

"Who's there…?" She croaked out the words, the tightness in her throat making her voice low, husky.

Imhotep froze, hearing her call out, hearing the fear in her voice. _Gods! He was continually cursed in this woman's presence._ For a second, he considered leaving, simply fading away into the night, returning back to the camp, but he realized that to do so would frighten her even more. No, he was well and truly trapped, caught like ill-fated prey by a stalking fate. Gritting his teeth, he turned back to face the pool, once more moving the vine aside, but this time stepping out of the shadows and into the bright moonlight, a ghost taking on shape and substance, materializing within the circle of the glade's protective sphere.

Her first reaction, when she recognized him, was abject relief, and her body went limp from the release of tension, her pent-up breath escaping from her lungs in a rush. Of all the things that could have stepped out from the shadows, he was the most harmless. _Or was he?_ She saw how he was looking at her, saw the tension in his posture, saw the heat in his eyes, and realized that perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps she was in more danger now than she would have been if she were facing down an entire regiment of the jungle's gruesome natives. Even though she knew she was utterly safe with him, that he would never harm her, this man was still a threat—to her heart, to her soul. And to her body as well, but not in any way save the most exquisitely pleasurable.

He made no move towards her, said nothing at all, and as the silence stretched between them, growing taught and heavy with words not spoken, Eliana felt her initial relief fade completely away, the tension once again beginning to seep into her bones, the fear slinking back into the corners of her mind. She sought his eyes, looking for reassurance, but finding only a smoldering darkness.

She opened her mouth, trying to speak, but couldn't force out any sound. Her throat was paralyzed, and she swallowed once, twice, and tried again, this time managing a small sound.

"Turn around," she whispered, watching him like a rabbit caught in a leopard's den. "I'm getting out. Please…turn around."

He turned slowly, his back now to her, and she flushed as she found herself staring at him, at the broad shoulders and lean body, well-concealed now by the loose-fitting clothes provided by Sabir, but vividly recalled from both her dreams and the memories of the past two days. She felt the heat rising not only in her face, but through the rest of her as well, starting from her fingers and toes and working its way throughout, finally seeming to pool in the center of her body, low in her stomach, causing an ache that was part pain, part…something else.

Moving cautiously, but with as much haste as she could manage, she left the pool, walking out of the shallow water, towards the pile of clothes she had discarded only minutes before. Not bothering with the towel, only thinking to cover herself as quickly as possible, she reached for the baggy shirt she'd worn, with some difficulty shoving her wet arms into the sleeves and, with shaking fingers, managing to button it enough to preserve some sense of decency. She felt the shirt grow damp, leaching water from her body and hair, beginning to cling uncomfortably to her still wet skin. She bent, reaching for her jeans.

"Are you dressed?" His voice was so low that she almost missed the question. Catching hold of her jeans with one hand, she straightened again, once more facing his broad back. She saw that he stood there rigidly, his hands in fists at his side, the tension in his posture almost palpable. She gulped, feeling almost sick with tension.

"Almost."

He knew that he should not turn towards her, screamed it at himself as his body disregarded the warnings of his mind, turning anyway. And once he had turned, once he had seen her standing there in the moonlight, her long hair hanging down past her shoulders, her bare legs exposed to the night air and his hungry gaze, the damp fabric of the mis-buttoned shirt plastered against her skin like transparent gauze, revealing far more than it concealed, it was too late. Every good intention, every instinct of self-preservation, every thought of caution fled his mind, leaving only a burning, raging desire.

She saw his eyes darken even more, saw his hands clench and unclench at his sides, saw a tiny muscle begin to twitch in his cheek. Her eyes swept over him, taking in the rigid set of his jaw, his tightly clamped teeth, the struggle he exerted to control his breathing. He looked like a panther about to pounce on unsuspecting prey, every sinew in his beautifully muscled body tensed and waiting for some signal, some sign.

When her eyes returned to his, he saw the fear in them, but he saw the turmoil as well, saw reflected in their green depths the same inner struggle that he was experiencing. He watched as she backed away from him, holding her clothing clutched to her chest, a useless talisman against him and the spell that was being cast over them. A spell that no mere amulet could ward off, an enchantment that wrapped its tendrils around them both, pulling them unwillingly towards a common destiny.

He watched her as she fought against it, watched as she waged a futile battle in a war that was already lost, watched as she made one last attempt to extricate herself from the snare that held her, held him, bound them both.

"Why did you follow me here?" The question was pointless, if not rhetorical, and he didn't bother to answer. His original reasons were as far away from the current truth as they could be, and he saw no need to voice them. Her next question though, was loaded, and as she asked it, he felt the ache in him begin to grow into an almost throbbing pain. "What do you want?"

Giving up, surrendering to the inescapable grip that fate seemed to have on him, he let his eyes reflect every shard of hunger, every flame of the conflagration that was blazing within him. He let her see into the deepest reaches of his soul, and she drew back, panicked, afraid. His answer was terse, and she froze in terror at the words and their meaning, at the naked desire in his eyes. "I think you know."

* * *

His hand reached out, his fingers picking up a tendril of her hair. Staring at it, admiring the glossy reddish brown, he was amazed at the fineness of its texture, of how soft it felt between his fingers. Wrapping the strand around his finger, he exerted the slightest tug, his eyes sliding from her hair to her eyes, and then dropping to her lips. Her mouth was beautiful—full, lush lips begging to be kissed, and he ached to taste them again. She saw him staring at her, and almost involuntarily, the tip of her tongue darted out, moistening her suddenly dry lips. She saw him follow the movement with his eyes, saw the flare of desire there, and she knew that they were both perilously close to giving in to whatever was driving them.

Imhotep raised his eyes to her own, and she stared into them, a shudder of something almost like fear going through her. His eyes blazed with desire, glittering like the stars in the night sky. Releasing her hair, his hand dropped to her shoulder, fingers lightly running over her satiny skin, moving around to the back of her head, cupping the nape of her neck, then sliding up and into her hair, tangling in the damp, heavy tresses and moving over her scalp in a slow, sensual massage. Although he could have easily pulled her to him, he exerted no pressure at all, save for the hypnotic pull of his eyes, the mesmerizing curve of his mouth…

"Come here." There was no force in the universe that could have kept her feet from moving towards him. She stepped closer, so close that she could feel the heat from his body, feel his breath fan her face as he bent his head towards her and spoke, the words low, erotic. "If nothing else can make you remember, perhaps this will…"

His lips were mere inches from hers, and she was shaking by now, caught up in the sensual spell evoked by his husky, softly accented baritone. She stared into his eyes, saw the golden highlights in the brown depths, saw the moonlight reflected there, saw the glimmer of a thousand stars. The battle was over. She craved him, lusted for him, needed him, and his nearness was driving her insane. He was so close, yet not close enough, and with a sigh, her eyelids drifted closed, her face tilted towards him, and her lips parted in a wordless invitation. She dropped the jeans she had been holding, and they crumpled into a pile on the ground, forgotten completely as she lifted her hands to his chest, running them over the rough weave of the shirt he wore, feeling the hard muscle underneath. His eyes blazed with a quick, ferocious look of triumph, and he lowered his lips to hers, sliding them over her mouth, rubbing them back and forth, feather soft, applying almost no pressure at first except that light, delicious friction, then gradually increasing the pressure, becoming more demanding.

Gently, he nibbled at her mouth, pulling on her full lower lip and stroking it lightly with his tongue. He traced the seam of her lips, and with a moan, she opened her mouth to his, deepening the kiss herself, inviting him with her lips and tongue to take what she was offering. Growling low in his throat, he accepted the invitation, opening his mouth over hers, his tongue swirling inside, devouring her with a hunger that burned, thrilled. He tasted of mint and spice, and a unique flavor all his own, and Eliana swayed closer, clutching his shirt, holding herself up through sheer force of will. Her head was spinning, her breathing was shallow, her heart was racing…

His hands moved, skimming her shoulders, running down her arms, sliding around to her back, finally coming to rest on her hips. He pulled her hard against him, letting her feel his body's reaction to her, and without thought she moved against him, her hips pressing closer, moving slightly in a gentle rocking motion, and she felt the answering surge in his body. With a gasp, she pulled her mouth away from his, tilting her neck up and shivering as his lips and tongue blazed a fiery trail down her throat, over her collarbone, stopping only when their path was blocked by the shirt she still wore.

* * *

Slowly, he raised his head, his eyes two twin coals, glowing white hot with hunger. His fingers dug into her hips, keeping her trapped there, and she could feel the throbbing hardness of his arousal. He searched her face, seeing the flush on her cheeks, the haze of passion in her eyes, the way her soft lips were swollen and moist from his kisses. It was all he could do to hold himself back from pulling her down to the ground with him and taking her at that very moment, and the fact that he was able to do so was a supreme testament to the strength of his will. He wanted her, wanted her more than he could remember ever having wanted something, but he would not take her under false pretenses.

"Eliana. Look at me." The words were a harsh command, and she obeyed, meeting his eyes and smiling up at him, slightly puzzled at his tone. She raised her hand to caress his face, but he stopped her before she touched him, his fingers wrapping around hers and holding them away from him. The harsh gesture seemed to snap her out of her lethargy, and she opened her eyes wider, searching his face to find the reason for his sudden aloofness. His mercurial change in temperament confused her, and she watched, unblinking, as he spoke again. "You need to know that this will change nothing between us."

His words were like a bucket of cold water hitting her in the face. This would change nothing? It would change everything… It had already changed everything. It had changed her. Ever since he had materialized in the pyramid, her world had been spinning out of control—her only constant _was_ change. How could he say it would change nothing? She half-listened as he went on, her ears hearing the words, but her brain refusing to process them, refusing to accept the meaning.

"This…this thing, this compulsion…whatever it is that is between us, I cannot give in to again. I will not." As he spoke, he carefully set her away from him, taking his hand from where it rested on her hip, disengaging his other hand from hers. He backed up a step, and took a deep breath, consciously damping the fires in his eyes.

She felt like he had slapped her, and she could feel hot tears—tears of mortification, tears of loss—gathering in her eyes. So she had been a fool—a blind, stupid fool—thinking that he could have forgiven her for what she had done to him in that cursed previous life. She had let herself be carried away by this overwhelming desire for him, she had finally taken a risk with her heart, and he was about to rip it in two and toss it back at her like so much trash.

"I see," she said, and he knew by the trembling of her chin, the blur of tears in her eyes, that he had hurt her. It was not what he had set out to do, not what he wanted, but whatever hurt he caused now would save her from a greater hurt later on, and that made it acceptable. He would not trust her with his heart again, but he had forgiven her enough to not want to cause her any unnecessary pain. He regretted that he had, but he was relieved that she understood there could be no future for them.

But her next words proved him wrong. She had not understood at all. "So this was all just some elaborate game, then? Some intricate little scheme to get me to humiliate myself, to pay me back for something that I don't even remember doing? Something _I_ didn't even do? At least not in this body, not in this lifetime…"

He cut her off before she could finish. "This was not a scheme, Eliana. Not a scheme, not a game. What happened here tonight…it was real, genuine, but I cannot let that change what must be. I am sorry," his voice trailed off, and he searched her eyes, looking for some sort of understanding, finding nothing save hurt and a deepening shame. He frowned, annoyed at his inability to make her understand what he was saying to her. "The desire I felt for you—feel for you—is real." He smiled then, a sardonic grimace that mocked him, not her. "It has always been real."

"Then what…" He saw her step forward, and he took a quick step backwards, holding his hands up to warn her off.

"I want you. I desire you, I lust for you, I _burn_ for you," he said, and she could see from his expression and the harsh undertone in his voice that he was telling the truth. His next words made that clearer. "If we…I…had not stopped just now, I would have happily taken what you offered." He saw her open her mouth to protest, and made a quelling gesture with his hand. "Please—it was not just you. I was offering myself to you as well. But only in a physical sense, do you understand that?"

Seeing that she did not, he went on. "I want you. I cannot deny that. I have no desire to deny that. I have always burned for you, no matter what body you inhabit, no matter what lifetime we share. But I cannot make the mistake of loving you again. I will not. It cost me too dearly in the past, and I will not offer you my heart, only to have you trample on it again."

Eliana finally began to understand, and he could see the comprehension growing on her face. He went on. "Once I finish my task here, I will leave. Amun-Re has promised me the blessing of death, and an unfettered path to the afterlife. I will choose death. Do you understand? Nothing that has happened here, nothing that could happen here, will change that. Even if we had not stopped, even if we had lain down with each other and given in to our _mutual_ passion, it would not change that. I can offer you nothing except a purely physical joining." Once more, he let her see into his eyes, see how he spoke truly, see how much he did desire her, even though he held back his heart. "No matter how much I want you, I will not take you without your knowing this. No matter what has happened between us before, I would not do that to you."

She stared at him, understanding at last, and devastated by the understanding. So this, then, was what they meant when people talked about the sins of past lives haunting you in the present. Those sins dogged your footsteps through life after life, until you finally were able to learn from them, repair the damage, and move on. She almost laughed. Damage like she had done him in the past was unconscionable, irreparable, and she would undoubtedly carry the stain of it with her from lifetime to lifetime, eternally reaping its bitter harvest. Some things could not be repaired; some souls could not be redeemed.

She lifted her chin, determined not to give in to the wretchedness she felt, determined not to cry. Calling upon all her reserves of self-discipline, she reined in her emotions, trying to look at the situation with some objectivity. Given their past, his stance was eminently understandable. How could she fault him for trying to guard his heart, for trying to take the safe path, when that was what she had done for most of her life?

He saw in her eyes that she finally understood him completely, and he smiled, almost sadly. "I see that you comprehend my meaning. And I understand, too, how this has made you…reconsider." Along with the steely resolve, there was also a depth of sadness in his eyes, sadness for what had been, for what might have been, and for what he would never allow to be. She could see it there, now that she had stopped watching through the haze of her own misery, and she knew that she was standing at a crossroads. It could be that he was absolutely right, and whatever happened between them would mean nothing, would change nothing. But he could be wrong, as well, for he was no more omniscient than she. Either way, it was clear that the risk would be entirely hers.

There are defining moments in every life, moments when the road suddenly forks, the paths stretching out in different directions, neither one clear, neither one completely safe. Eliana was at such an intersection now. In one direction lay security, and the unknowing loss that accompanies a life with no risk. All her life she had traveled that straight and narrow path, willingly and with few regrets. Every choice she had made had been well analyzed, the pros and cons carefully plotted, the decisions made with careful reflection to minimize any inherent threats. She knew what lay down that road, and curiously, the knowledge left her empty instead of relieved, desolate instead of comforted.

In the other direction, the path was steep and rocky, sharply curved, and the danger was clear and present. The thought of turning down that road filled her with fear, made her heart pound, made her hands sweat, made the adrenalin surge through her body. Taking that path would mean abandoning everything she had always held dear—the security, the safety, the lack of risk that had always comforted her, kept her safe. Everything on that path represented risk, and at the end lay the biggest risk of all. The risk of having her heart ripped out and broken in half—eternally, unendingly—with absolutely no hope of repair.

Eliana breathed deeply, knowing that she was about to make a choice that she might come to regret bitterly. She was afraid of this uncharted path, afraid of the man who stood before her, afraid of the feelings he evoked in her, afraid of what would come of this decision. But if she were honest with herself, she was _more_ afraid of not taking a chance at all, of losing whatever this was between them, of whatever it _could_ be, of going back to her cold, sterile life, where passion only existed in books, where color and life were things that existed on paper, never in reality. Passion was staring her in the face right now, right here, and the choice was hers.

She watched as he smiled again, and that same sadness was in his eyes as he began to turn away. He paused, turned back, and with a tenderness that was at odds with the seemingly cold resolve he had expressed just minutes before, he lifted his hand to trace the age old gesture in the air before her face. "Be at peace, Eliana. I will leave you here tonight, the scepter will keep you safe, and soon enough, it will all be over."

_No! _Her heart jumped painfully as the meaning of his works sank in. So he intended to fulfill this "mission" of his, and then die? She could not accept that. _Damn it, it would _not_ be over! Or at least, if it were, it would not be without a fight on her part._ In a heartbeat, her decision was made, and she reached out, capturing his hand in hers, ignoring the look of surprise on his face as she bent her head, pressing a kiss to his palm. Looking up again, she met his eyes, saw the question there, and for once, she made no effort to protect herself, made no attempt to guard her heart. What would be, would be. Fate would have her say, and Eliana would make no attempt to silence her. The consequences of tonight be damned. For once, she would reach out and seize life with both hands, and if that meant she got burned, so be it.

"Imhotep," she said, and her voice shook only slightly as she said his name. "Don't leave. I don't want you to go. Stay here with me, even if it's only for tonight. I want to remember you; I want to remember us. No matter what happens in the future, I want that. You can show me…I know you can." He opened his mouth, clearly intending to argue, but she silenced him with a hand, pressing her fingers gently against his lips, telling him without words that her decision was made. "I understand what you have told me, and I accept it. I am willing to take only what you can give, and I take that gladly. Will you do the same?" As she spoke, she pulled his hand towards her, keeping her eyes locked with his, using her fingers to gently pry his open, finally bringing his palm to rest over her heart, moving aside the edges of her soggy shirt so that nothing lay between them. Taking a breath, she pressed a hand over his, holding it to her warm skin, while with the other she reached up to trace his lips. "Will you take what I am willing to give you?"

* * *

He drew in a quick breath, and even though he still looked unsure, she could see that the fire had begun to rekindle in his eyes. She smiled, her fingers still running lightly over his lips, tracing the sculpted beauty of his mouth. "From what little I know of you in this lifetime, this uncertainty is uncharacteristic of you, Imhotep…"

He was shocked to the core by this sudden transformation. The Eliana of just a few minutes ago had been hesitant, timid almost, about seizing what life had to offer. In the space of a heartbeat, she had gone from someone who resisted risk-taking at all costs to a woman who was willing to begin a purely physical relationship with someone who had literally come back from the dead. Someone she could have no future with. He had trouble reconciling this new Eliana with the one he had spent the last several days with. But at the same time, this new woman was beginning to seem altogether too familiar to him…

"I have learned too well that it is not wise to leap headfirst into the Nile without first looking to see if crocodiles lay waiting, Eliana." He smiled ruefully, and she felt his lips curve under her touch. The movement of his mouth on her fingers was unbelievably erotic, and she felt the heaviness in her abdomen begin to grow again, the heat spreading throughout her body like a fever.

"There are no crocodiles waiting to devour you, Imhotep." She smiled. "I have already told you that I understand what you have said, and I accept it." Her fingers left his mouth, trailing down his jaw, slowly moving down his neck to his shoulder, and from there working their way down the hard muscles of his arm to finally take his other hand in hers. "You said that you wanted me. I want you as well. I will take what you can give, and ask for no more. I give you my word." She saw the brief flare of distrust in his eyes. "My word is good, Imhotep. I do not remember my life as Anck-su-namun, but I know what I am in _this_ lifetime. I am Eliana now—you have _her_ word on this."

He stared into her eyes, into the deep, clear green, and he wanted to believe her. If she could accept that this was all he could give her, all they could have, could he not permit himself this one night spent in her arms? He had no way of knowing if he would exist by tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, and he was at peace with that lack of knowledge. But at the same time, if these were to be his last few moments in the living world, who could fault him for making the most of the brief time he had left as a living, breathing man?

Eliana saw the internal struggle that he was waging, and she smiled again. Pulling lightly on his hand, she tugged him towards her, using his own words. "Come here…"

He hesitated for only a second more before taking a step forward and gathering her in his arms. The desire was back in his eyes, but she could see that there was something else there as well—a lightness that had been absent before, a relief at being accepted on his own terms, and an undeniable tenderness. Her heart leaped with a sudden hope, but she resolutely pushed it away, refusing to do anything but exactly what she had promised—share whatever time with him she had, making no demands, expecting no promises. Her heart accepted the rebuke, but the tiny seed of hope refused to go away entirely, simply fading into quietness, content to bide its time.

His hands cupped her face, thumbs lightly moving over her cheekbones, the heat of his touch starting small fires everywhere. He stared down at her, trying to memorize every inch of her face, from the satiny smooth skin to the lush fullness of her lips, the gentle sweep of her brows, the beautiful green of her eyes. This close, he could see that there was a fine dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose, undoubtedly from the time she spent out in the hot sun at these digs. They didn't detract from her beauty at all, simply highlighted it with an innocent appeal that he found irresistible.

Bending slowly, still holding her face in his hands, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to each eyelid. Those areas attended, his lips trailed softly along her cheekbone, finally seeking out her lips. The kiss he gave her this time was one of gentle exploration, and her lips parted beneath his, encouraging him in his discovery. His tongue slipped past her lips, probing into the moist warmth of her mouth, seeking and finding hers, and she felt a jolt of raw longing surge through her at the intense intimacy of the contact.

His hands drifted down her neck, over her collarbone, finally coming to rest on her shoulders. She lifted her hands to his, moving them down to where the edges of her shirt came together, and he understood what she wanted. His mouth and tongue still wreaking havoc on her senses, he reached for the buttons that fastened the damp garment. He found the first button, tried to release it, but found that his hands were shaking, and his normally agile fingers were not listening to the commands his brain was sending them. _Gods, it was like he had never been with a woman before_, he thought, disgusted with himself. Eliana did not seem to mind, though, and with a soft laugh, broke the kiss, once again lifting her hands to his.

"I don't care," she whispered into his mouth, wrapping her fingers around his. "Tear it."

He groaned, and with one quick pull ripped the blouse apart, buttons flying in a crazy hailstorm through the air. She opened her eyes, watching as he slowly spread the sides of the fabric apart, his eyes drinking in her nakedness. His gaze wandered from the creamy fullness of her breasts, their rosy peaks hard and pebbled, aching for his touch, to the flatness of her stomach, the narrowness of her waist. Dropping further, she saw his eyes darken as they swept over the curve of her hips, took in the slim length of her legs, and finally came back to rest on the triangle of dark curls at the juncture of her thighs. She was trembling all over, watching him as he devoured her with his eyes.

At last, he pulled his gaze back to her breasts. Not taking his eyes off the lush curves, his fingers skimmed over her collarbone, dropping down to lightly caress her ribcage, finally sliding around to cup the ripe weight of her in his hands. His thumbs moved lightly, erotically, over the swollen tips, and she felt a shudder go through her, felt a delicious coiling tension begin to build.

He raised his eyes to hers, and she could see the heat there, the fire of his longing. She held her breath as he continued to move his thumbs back and forth over her nipples, the teasing touch an exquisite torture.

"You are beautiful, Eliana." His voice was husky, gruff with barely checked emotion as he lowered his head, mouth seeking the curve of one breast, laying a trail of fire over the smooth paleness of her skin. "So beautiful." He drew moist circles of heat around the tip of her breast with his tongue, still managing to avoid taking it completely. When she moaned in impatient agony, unable to stand the torment any more, he chuckled, finally opening his mouth and drawing the nipple inside, flicking it with his tongue, pulling on her breast with his lips, sending her up in flames.

She clutched him to her, holding him to her breast, her head thrown back, eyes closed, reveling in the way he skillfully played her body, an instrument in the hands of a gifted musician. Transferring his attention to the other breast, he inflicted the same sweet torture there, holding her still when she would have pulled away, unable to stand the torment any longer. Finally, when he had suckled her breasts until she was in danger of melting into oblivion, he lifted his hands, sliding them up and under the wet shirt, pushing the fabric down her arms, letting it fall to the ground.

He stood upright again, holding her hands out at her sides, his hot gaze raking over her once more. She fought the urge to cover herself, amazed that she could still feel this ridiculous shyness. He had already seen her completely naked, and before the night was through, neither of them would have any secrets that had not been thoroughly, deliciously, utterly exposed.

"You are exquisite," he repeated the praise, shaking his head in wonder. She dropped her eyes, unable to hold his smoldering gaze, wanting only for him to draw her back to him, to complete what they had begun. Finally, he did so, letting her hands drop to her sides, pulling her into his arms, taking her mouth again in a hard, possessive kiss. She raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck, holding tightly as he plundered her mouth, his hands roaming over the contours of her back and buttocks, finally grasping her hips and pulling her fully against him, so that she could feel the hard ridge of his arousal through the borrowed trousers he wore.

She dropped her hands to his waist, slipping her fingers underneath the loose shirt, sliding them up over the ridged contours of his abdomen, running them over the planes of his chest. She found the small, hard nubs of his masculine nipples and lightly raked her nails over them, drawing a low groan from the depths of his throat. She caught the bottom of his shirt in her fists, pulling it upward, suddenly desperate to feel his skin on hers. He helped her, lifting his arms so that the rough fabric slid over his head, off his arms, and was finally discarded on the ground alongside hers.

She took her time, then, savoring the texture of his warm skin under her exploring fingers, relishing the feel of the rippling muscle and sinew beneath. He was perfect, every inch of him, and she pressed a kiss to his bare chest, running her tongue over the smooth skin, tasting him, teasing him as he had done to her. Her hands slid down over his back, and she pressed herself against him, the feel of his skin on hers almost too much to bear. He was warm, solid, incredibly desirable, and the texture of his bare skin sliding across her already aroused flesh sent shivers of heat coursing through her.

Her hands slid down his back, finding the waistband of the pants he wore, slipping around to the front, finding the drawstring that fastened them. Her fingers worked the loosely knotted cord free, and she felt the waist gape open at her gentle tugging. The pants were much too large for him, and with another slight tug, they slid easily down the hard contours of his hips and thighs, falling to the ground, where he stepped out of them, kicking off the borrowed shoes as well.

He stood before her, comfortable with his nakedness, allowing her to survey him at her leisure. Reaching out, she ran her hand down his chest as her eyes swept over him, feasting on the hard contours of his body. He made no effort to hide the fact that he was fully, almost painfully aroused—in fact, as her roving gaze reached that part of him, her eyes widening slightly before darting back to safer territory, he smiled, the corners of his lips twitching in secret amusement. He was pleased that she seemed to enjoy looking at him, pleased that he pleased her, and with an outstretched hand, he beckoned to her.

"Eliana, come here." The amused glint was still in his eyes. "Feasting with our eyes is enjoyable, but to touch is much more fulfilling."

She looked up at him, shy again, now that there was nothing between them but moonlight and shadows, and he reached to brush back her still damp hair. "This is still what you want, Eliana?"

Mutely, she nodded, casting off her timidity and walking into his arms, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing herself against him. "Yes. I want this. I want you, Imhotep. It's just…"

"Shhh," he whispered, his fingers beneath her chin tipping her face up, his lips moving softly over hers. "We have all night, Eliana. As much time as we need, as much time as we want…"

His arms went around her, pulling her close, and she felt his arm beneath her knees as he lifted her in a gentle embrace. He carried her the few steps to the towel she had laid out earlier, kneeling down, still holding her in his arms, laying her gently on the fluffy white cotton, smoothing out her hair, running his hand over her body. She opened her eyes to see him kneeling beside her, and she held out her arms to him. "Imhotep…"

He wasted no time in lying down beside her, gathering her into his arms and taking her mouth in a kiss that was demanding, intoxicating. It carried a promise of dark, secret pleasures, of sinful, carnal delight, and she felt herself melting in its heat. While he kissed her, his hands roved over her body, touching, seeking, exploring more insistently than before, and she moved against him, wanting him to touch her everywhere, anywhere, desperate for him to satisfy the ache that was beginning to build inside her.

When his fingers trailed over her thigh, gently parting her legs, slipping into the moist recesses of her body, she moaned, the sound low, hoarse, almost guttural. He tore his mouth away from hers, watching in fierce pleasure as she cried out, arching her back, pressing herself up against his hand, writhing against him. His fingers delved deep, probing, seeking, and finally withdrawing slightly to find the hard nub where her pleasure was most intense. He stroked her there, rubbing against the swollen bit of flesh, drawing out her pleasure, feeling her heat and moisture on his hand.

"Ah, God, Imhotep, please…" she begged, writhing against his hand. "No more…" But he continued the exquisite torture, letting the pleasure take her so far, but not allowing her to find her release. Not yet. There was more, yet, that he wanted her to feel, more of her that he wanted to touch, to taste… The night was still young, and he was determined to give her every pleasure, every satisfaction, every bit of fulfillment that he could. This night may be all that they had, and he was determined to make it unforgettable for them both.

She shuddered as he withdrew his hand, reaching out for him as she felt him move away from her side. As she opened her eyes to see where he had gone, she felt his hands on her knees, lifting them, bending them, opening her to him, running his fingers over her inner thighs, trailing them over her hot core, parting the swollen folds that shielded her femininity. Looking into his eyes, she caught her breath at the look of white hot hunger there, holding her breath as she saw him lean down, his lips and tongue following the trail his hands had just blazed, feeling the moist heat of his exploration. He nuzzled her, tasting and teasing, flicking his tongue over her again and again, licking in long, deep strokes until she was panting with need, her fingers digging into the towel beneath her, scrunching it up into wadded fistfuls. Still, he refused to let her reach her peak, stopping the delicious torment just as he began to feel her tension build to the breaking point.

She untangled her fingers from the fabric of the towel and grasped his shoulders, pulling him upwards, mutely asking him to end the torture. He obliged her, sliding up along the length of her body, his mouth worshipping her as he went, finally lifting himself above her, supporting most of his weight on his arms, but letting his hips rest against her, letting her feel his swollen length against her flesh. He looked into her eyes; the deep green now glazed with desire, her skin hot and flushed, and thought that she had never looked so beautiful. His heart twisted painfully, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead as he held himself poised above her, not moving, not breathing, just watching as she met his gaze. She smiled up at him, and his heart constricted again, then lurched wildly as her eyes took on a playful twinkle and she reached between them, wrapping her fingers around his engorged shaft, guiding it to her entrance.

"Now, Imhotep?" Her smile grew wider, her eyes drifting closed, as she lifted her hips in invitation.

He could feel the sweat breaking out all over his body as he fought the urge to drive into her immediately, deeply, to thrust into the welcoming heat of her body and quench the fever that was raging though him. Instead, he pressed into her slowly, inch by inch, watching her face closely as he entered her. When he came up against the fragile barrier inside, he froze, withdrawing immediately, startled eyes seeking her face.

"Eliana…" he began, only to have her stop his words with a gentle hand on his mouth. Moving her hips against him, she attempted to draw him back into her anxious body, struggling to take him inside even as he resolutely held himself away. _Gods, he had had no idea. From the way she had responded to him, encouraged him, he had thought…_ _It did not matter what he had thought._ He moved her hand away, relentlessly questioning her. "Eliana, why? You have never been with a man before—why now?"

She dropped her eyes, an embarrassed flush stealing up and over her cheeks. "I didn't think it mattered…"

He shook his head in amazement. "You thought it did not matter? How could it not matter?"

"I didn't think you would care—I didn't even know for sure if you'd _notice_." She turned her head away, refusing to look him in the eye as he snorted in disbelief at her last words. He gripped her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Eliana, how could I _not notice_? I have no desire to hurt you…" His voice was raw with the effort it cost him to remain still. He was dying inside, on fire for her, wanting nothing but to possess her. He ached from the repressed need. Still, he would not take her, not until he was sure she knew, sure that she wanted this as much as he did.

"Imhotep, please. _Please_." She trailed off, misery in her voice. "Do you want me to beg you?"

His hand was gentle on her face as he smoothed away the tear that leaked from the corner of one eye. "No. Gods, _no_. If anything, I should be begging _you_. I do not wish to hurt you, or to take something from you that can never be replaced."

She lay still beneath him, seeing the strain on his face, the tension in the muscles of his arms as he held himself rigidly away from her. Finally, she realized what his restraint was costing him, and that tiny seed of hope inside her cracked open just a bit, sending out a small tendril to curl around her heart. _He cared_. Perhaps he didn't want to, but he cared.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him downwards. "You are taking nothing that I do not wish to give, Imhotep. I have run from life too much. For once, I want to stop running." Her hips thrust upwards again, and she lifted herself slightly, pressing her lips to his collarbone, whispering against his skin. "Please…"

His only answer was a low groan, as he searched her eyes for the truth and saw it there, staring at him. He saw that she wanted him, wanted this, and the feel of her softness surrounding him, pulling at him, was finally too much. With a quick, smooth thrust, he pierced the barrier, sinking into her depths, impaling her completely. He felt her stiffen at first, heard her gasp, but as he held himself inside her, letting her grow used to the feel of his possession, he felt the tension seep out of her, felt her first, tentative movement against him, and he began to move as well.

Slowly at first, gently, he moved in and out of her, but as he felt her movements growing bolder, more sure, he drove deeper, moving one hand beneath her, tilting her pelvis up to give him greater access. Eliana gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his back, and gave herself over to the sheer pleasure of having him inside her, a part of her. Nothing in her life had ever felt so utterly, completely right. This went beyond lovemaking, eclipsed the mere physical act. It was a homecoming.

She rocked wildly beneath him, straining against the tension coiling within, feeling a delicious tightening sensation start to build. He watched as her breath began to come in short, panting gasps, and he pushed even deeper, realizing that she was close, so close…

He slid his hand between them, feeling for the center of her desire, finding it, rubbing it, flicking it with his fingers, pushing her over the edge. He held himself deep within, and felt her clench around him, felt the rhythmic tightening that signaled her climax, and finally, when the shaking tremors had begun to fade from her body, he allowed himself to find his own release. Once, twice more, he thrust into her tight, slick heat, and with a shuddering groan, he felt himself begin to pour into her.

Eliana wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly inside her as he came, and when the spasms had finally passed, she pulled him down to her, cradling his head on her breast.

He lay against her for a long minute, still within her, and then, not wanting to crush her with his weight, he rolled off her, tenderly pressing a kiss to her lips, pulling her into his arms and holding her tight against him. They lay there together, in the moonlight, beside the gurgling warmth of the pool, and he reached out, gently stroking the sweat-dampened hair from her face, feeling the movement of her hand over her chest, the weight of her head resting on his arm. He nearly missed the words she spoke, as she snuggled in his arms and drifted off into a drowsy half-sleep.

"Imhotep, my love…" He turned to look at her, but her eyes were already closed, her breathing even, and he did not wake her. Her words, though, hung in the air between them, blanketing him with their weight, and as he turned them over and over in his mind, he realized that it was not only what she had said that troubled him so. It was the fact that she had spoken not in the Hebrew he had become accustomed to, but instead had used the clear, melodic cadence of the Old Tongue. The words she spoke were Egyptian, not Hebrew, and as he closed his eyes and drifted off himself, he wondered at what, if anything, that signified.

* * *

Some time later, they awoke, shivering despite the warm, humid air near the pool. Imhotep stood, pulling her with him, kissing her deeply, ardently; worshipping her with his mouth and hands before picking her up in his arms and carrying her with him as he walked into the warm heat of the gently moving water. Its moist warmth lapped around them, and as he lowered her into the water, Eliana let out a sigh of sheer bliss. She had thought the water felt like heaven before, but that had been nothing compared to the sensation of being here with him, feeling him pressed up against her, feeling his hands running over her body in a soothing, sensual caress. 

He turned her away from him, pulling her back against his chest, and she tipped her head back, resting it on his shoulder, letting him touch her as he wished. He cupped his hands, scooping up the warmly effervescent water, pouring it over her, tracing its path with his hands, running them over her gently, lovingly, massaging out the aches in her tired muscles. As his hands worked their particular brand of magic, his lips traced the slope of her shoulder, seeking out the curve of her neck, tantalizing her earlobe, wandering over her in a teasingly erotic exploration.

Finally, when he felt her begin to move against him, when he could hear her moan softly, he turned her to face him, lifting her up and positioning her over him, letting her slide down until he could feel himself poised to enter the warm heat of her body. Their eyes met, and behind the glaze of passion a deeper emotion hovered, something stronger, yet more fragile, one that neither one was willing to recognize or call by name. Eliana wrapped her legs around his waist, and as he held her up, supporting them both, she moved her hand, reaching down, wrapping her fingers around him, centering him at her entrance. With exquisite patience, he lowered her onto his hard length, closing his eyes to the pleasure.

Slowly, at first, then more rapidly, they moved together, their bodies joined in a wordless symphony, their hearts beating in unison, their breath mixing and mingling as their mouths clung to each other in silent reverence. When the rolling waves of pleasure finally swept over them, they clung to each other, locked in a timeless, eternal embrace, the moonlight playing over their glistening bodies, washing over them in a silvery benediction. Safe, secure within the protective sphere of the glade's unique magic, they held each other in a lover's embrace, replete for now, not knowing, not caring that a malevolent fate cursed and writhed just outside the boundaries of the little enclosure, picking at the veil of its protection with bony fingers.


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

_Lonely, I have gone to bed, having lit the fire. My soul has been a restless bird that leaves to seek itself. For the hawk who breaks the confines of the shell, even the sky is not enough eternity._

_He may be tossed by storms of whirling sand or riding a hot wind above the dunes. Far from here his voice may ring through forests from the branches of a mango. By the Nile he may wait silent among the reeds, catfish spawning as he sleeps, his head tucked in his wing. If you see him, send him home to me. The heart is uncertain country._

_Ah, my soul's a restless bird. Words flow like rivers. Through my veins water churns on; on dark wings he flies from yesterday, love in his throat, the warmth of light among his feathers, the sun risen in his hard, amber eye._

_--Excerpt from "Bringing Home His Soul", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

Eliana yawned and stretched indolently, feeling the morning sun beating down on her through the thin nylon of her tent, noting the stiffness in her muscles, the unfamiliar ache elsewhere. She opened her eyes slowly, momentarily confused, not realizing why. For some reason, it felt strange to be in the tent. In a sudden flood, the memories of the night before washed through her mind, and she bolted upright, pushing off the sleeping bag that covered her half-dressed form, running a hand carelessly through her tousled hair. A quick look around told her she was alone in the tent; a glance out one of its windows told her that the morning was already half gone. _Where was he?_

She found her clothes from the night before in a neat pile on the floor and threw them on, substituting a T-shirt from her duffel bag for the ruined shirt. With a grimace, she tossed the buttonless garment into a corner of the tent. She would either fix it later or throw it away. For now, she had more important things to do. Turning to her small bag of toiletries, she pulled out a mirror, hastily dragged a brush through her hair and tried to make herself presentable.

Pausing for a moment, she stared at herself in the mirror. Nothing had changed; nothing looked different. Perhaps her mouth was a bit swollen, her lips bruised slightly from his hard, demanding kisses; certainly, there were dark circles of fatigue under her eyes. But beyond that, the face looking back at her was the same face that had done so the morning before, and the morning before that. There was no sudden metamorphosis, no abrupt transformation into someone else, _something_ else. All was the same.

Except on the inside, where it counted. Inside, she had changed irrevocably, eternally. There was no going back. _She loved him._ There, it was said—in her mind at least, and her heart, if not out loud. _She loved him_. It didn't matter that he didn't feel the same; it didn't matter that their paths in this life had only crossed two days ago. Her soul knew his, and her heart had recognized its missing half. She loved him.

* * *

Opening the flap of her tent, Eliana stepped out into chaos. Hers was the only tent left standing; the others were all torn down, neatly folded into compact packages for easy relocation. Everywhere she looked, workers bustled, hastily tying boxes of supplies, tents and personal belongings into makeshift pallets that could be dragged on skids through the jungle. 

_Oh, God, we're moving to the pyramid today!_ Eliana groaned. She had completely forgotten. But why had no one bothered to wake her? Normally a light sleeper, Eliana realized she must have slept like the dead last night and this morning, to have not noticed the noise and confusion surrounding the thin walls of her tent.

* * *

Eliana hurried through the bustling camp, looking for her father, looking for Imhotep. She found Bernstein first, deep in conversation with Dr. Robillard. The two men were not arguing, but their tone was impassioned all the same. She slowed as she approached them, not wanting to intrude. 

"Robillard, what are you saying?" Bernstein asked in disbelief. "What do you mean, you don't have the personnel to transport Eric and Doug?"

"I'm sorry, Professor. I sent half of my people back already, to get the portable lab set up in the pyramid, and to get two quarantine chambers set up for the sick men. I have enough people to carry back the equipment we brought along, and maybe one extra to help move one of the victims." He shrugged. "You have plenty of people here. Surely you could find three men willing to help transport them. It's not that far, and we'll of course supply gloves and masks along with the stretchers…"

Bernstein shook his head. "I'm afraid you don't understand how superstitious and fearful these workers are, Robillard. But if nothing else, I'll help move them. I'm sure Akil will, also."

"Two younger men would be preferable, you understand," Robillard looked uncertainly at Bernstein, not wanting to insult him by calling him old, but not wanting to jeopardize his patients, either. "It's important that the transport go as smoothly as possible, and if you or Professor Hamid should trip or fall…" He paused. "Can you at least _see_ if there are any volunteers?"

Bernstein's doubt was etched clearly on his face. "I'll do my best, but I can't make any promises. I won't allow any of the students to take that kind of a risk, and I won't force anyone else to do it either. It may end up being Akil and me, anyway."

Robillard clapped a hand on Bernstein's shoulder. "We will deal with it when the time comes, Professor. In the meantime, I'll be with my team. You know where to find me." Giving the archaeologist's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, the French doctor turned and walked away.

Eliana slowly approached her father. He looked older than she had ever seen him, and tired. "Dad? What's wrong?"

"Ah, Ellie. You're awake. Good. Are your things packed? Tent down?" His smile was as faded as the blue of his eyes. She was almost alarmed at the change in his demeanor.

"My stuff is packed—I did that last night. But the tent's still up. Why didn't anyone wake me?" She peered at him more closely. "And _what is the matter_?"

He put an arm around her and, sighing, pulled her against him in a quick embrace. "We didn't wake you Ellie, because your friend, that Imhotep fellow, said you were exhausted. Said that the trip through the jungle was more tiring than you let on, and that you should be allowed to sleep. So, we let you sleep." He glanced at her. "You still look tired to me. Are you feeling all right?"

Eliana shot him a quick look. "I'm fine, Dad. Just feeling some stress, like everyone else. I hope I didn't throw everyone's schedule off today because I overslept. You really should have woken me." She hoped that the eagerness in her voice wasn't too obvious. "You talked to Imhotep this morning? Do you know where he is? Where I could find him?"

Bernstein looked at her, and though tired, his eyes regained some of their characteristic sharpness. "I talked to him shortly after sunrise, Ellie. A long time ago. I don't know where he is now—probably helping to get things organized and ready to move, like everyone else." He held her away from him, looking into her eyes. She could feel a hot, embarrassed flush stealing up her neck, coloring her face. Her eyes dropped, not able to meet his. "What is going on between the two of you, Ellie? Do I need to worry about this, too?"

She hastened to reassure him. "No." She cleared her throat, and her voice was stronger. "No, Dad, you have nothing to worry about. Nothing is going on." _I've fallen in love with a man who was born over three thousand years ago, discovered that I am the reincarnation of his long-lost love, and one of the Med Jai who cursed us for all eternity is here in the camp, posing as a laborer. Oh, and by the way, that journalist from the _Times_ is not who he appears to be, either…_ Oh, no, there was nothing to worry about here—just your ordinary, every day catastrophe waiting to happen.

He pulled her into a quick hug, his voice gruff with affection. "Good, Ellie. Good. I don't want anything to happen to you, and I have a bad feeling about that man. Like he could be dangerous to you, somehow." He released her, tipping up her chin to look down at her. "I love you, Ellie. You're still my little girl, and I worry about you."

"I know, Dad." She hugged him back. "I love you, too." She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth and security of her father's embrace, feeling for a moment like a little girl again, safe and happy. With one last squeeze, she moved out of her father's arms and smiled up at him, frowning when she saw the smile on his face stiffen, become forced. She looked over her shoulder to see who was there, and froze, her breath catching in her throat, her heart skipping into a gallop.

_Imhotep_.

She started forward, then faltered, a range of emotions coursing through her. Love, joy, the memory of last night's shared passion… It was all mirrored on her face, plain as the sunlight that flowed down through the green canopy above. His own visage was a study in careful neutrality, but for just a second, she saw the flame of shared memory blaze in the dark brown depths. It was extinguished immediately, snuffed out before it ever really lived, giving way to a guarded blankness, a polite indifference that speared her heart and left it bleeding.

And she remembered her promise.

Schooling her expression into one that mirrored his, she walked towards him. She was near enough to touch him, so close that she could see every glint of gold in his eyes, every one of the tiny lines that fanned out from their corners and bracketed the sensual curve of his mouth. She had never felt so far away. Even when they had argued in the jungle, only days before, there had never been this chasm between them. Now, the memory of last night stood between them, looming large as the golden pyramid itself, a gigantic obstacle that neither would acknowledge, but neither could ignore.

But she had given her word, and she would keep it, even if her heart bled slowly to death as a result. She did the only thing she could do. With a small, polite smile, she looked up at him. "Good morning, Imhotep." Then, without even a backward look, she walked away. In silence, he watched her go.

Bernstein's gaze drifted back and forth between the two of them. Eliana was already almost out of sight, heading back towards her tent. Imhotep stood silent, unmoving, still as a statue. Try as he might, Bernstein couldn't manage to divine anything from the Egyptian's face. _I'd hate to play poker with him,_ he thought, grimly impressed. No, he couldn't read anything from Imhotep's expression. But John Bernstein did know his daughter, and he had seen how she had reacted to the man he now faced. And now he was more worried than ever.

With a sober, almost unfriendly nod in Imhotep's direction, the older man walked past, leaving the priest alone with his thoughts.

* * *

Maintaining that aloofness, the purposeful distance, was one of the most difficult things Imhotep had ever done, no small thing considering what he had endured over the centuries. Although every instinct in him demanded that he go to her, take her in his arms and drive away the sadness in her eyes, he would not do so. He held himself back, almost shaking with the effort. 

_What sadistic irony,_ he thought, _what poetic punishment for our sins._ In this lifetime, there was nothing holding them apart. There was no Seti, no societal taboos. Even the curse was crumbled to dust. _Nothing_ stood between them. Nothing except the mountain of the past, the shadow of her betrayal, and his own unwillingness to trust her again, or trust their love. And that was enough.

Imhotep bowed his head, an almost defeated look crossing his face. _Only a little while longer,_ he reminded himself. Only a short time left until there was only a blessed nothingness. Wondering if he could manage to survive that long, Imhotep's long stride carried him off in the opposite direction from the one Eliana had taken. The more distance between them, the better.

* * *

Concealed by a tree, Ardeth carefully watched the Creature as Imhotep followed the retreating Eliana with his eyes. A baffled frown crossed the Med Jai's face. This was not the face of the monster he had expected. If anything, the man standing alone in the small clearing looked all too human, which went contrary to Ardeth's every belief, every prejudice. Everything he had ever learned about Imhotep, all the tales and legends that had been passed down faithfully from generation to generation, had hammered in the inarguable fact that the Creature was a fiend—a ruthless, vicious predator with only one weakness—his obsessive love for Anck-su-namun. 

Ardeth reminded himself that this was the same man who had left him for dead in the pyramid just two days ago, the same man whom his forefathers had cursed countless generations past—a living aberration of nature. Imhotep was a walking plague, a demon sprung from some unholy pit, and it was Ardeth's mission to see that he was put back there.

But try as he might, he couldn't forget the look that he had seen flicker over Imhotep's face just a minute ago. It was not the look of a monster, or a fiend. It was the look of a man caught in a trap of his own making, hanging from a noose he had forged with his own two hands.

And Ardeth knew what that felt like. He could almost find it within himself to pity the priest. Giving the Creature a final, appraising stare, he went off in search of Eliana.

* * *

He found her at the edge of the camp, her back against the broad trunk of a palm tree, facing out towards the ocean of green they would shortly be crossing. He watched her carefully, searching for any signs of a change, any difference in looks or mannerism that would indicate a metamorphosis in progress. He saw none. No sign of a brazen courtesan, no hint of a murderous harlot. Nothing. If anything, she seemed like a lost little girl, even quieter and more reserved that the Eliana he had come to know and care for. Her head was bowed, her shoulders curved inward. She looked miserable, lost, lonely. Ardeth felt a sharp pang of guilt. She had been his friend. Could she help who she had been, any more than he could help who he was? 

His booted feet spanned the distance between them; his dark-skinned hand fell on her shoulder. At her startled jump, he hastened to reassure her. "It is only me, Eliana." His softly accented voice was gentle as his dark eyes searched her face, taking in the pallor, the tinge of blue-black fatigue smudged beneath her eyes. The stress of the last few days had taken its toll.

She gave him a weak smile. "Hello, Ardeth. Dad giving you a break? Or did he send you to find me?"

He smiled back at her. "Neither, actually. I saw you standing here and thought you looked as though you could use a friend."

She looked away from him, once again staring off into the trees. It was a long while before she spoke. "And are you a friend, Ardeth?"

He should have expected it, but the question stung anyway, cutting sharply into the carefully erected barrier he had built around himself long ago. The silence stretched on, as he debated how to answer her question. Finally, he settled on answering it with one of his own. "What has he told you?"

At last she looked at him. He hated what he saw in her eyes, hated the distrust there, the guarded aloofness. "Enough. Not much about you, specifically, but enough about everything else." Her eyes drifted away again. "Enough for me to know that I can't believe you; can't trust you."

"You believe _him_, though?" Anger leaked into Ardeth's voice, past the wall inside him.

"Is he lying to me, Ardeth? Which of you has done that?" She crossed her arms over her chest, cold inside despite the heat of the morning.

His shoulders sagged. When he spoke again, she heard the sad resignation in his voice. "If I lied to you, Eliana, it was a lie of omission only."

"How is that less a lie?" Briefly, her eyes blazed in a green flare of anger, directed straight at him.

"I cannot say it was not a lie, Eliana." He turned away, staring into the forest as she had done. "All I can say in my defense was that it was done to spare you any unnecessary pain. If the Creature had not been awakened, if nothing else had happened here, if the dig was over and you simply went on with your life as it was, why would you have needed to know any of it?" He paused, glancing her way again. "What has the knowledge brought you, but pain?"

"There were a lot of 'ifs' in what you just said, Ardeth," she sighed, running a hand through her hair in what he had come to recognize as a characteristic gesture of hers. "Maybe you shouldn't place those kinds of bets on other peoples' lives."

"I am sorry," he said, moving to stand in front of her, looming large as a wall, leaving her eyes with nowhere else to focus. She stared at him as he took her hands in his, cradled them in his own large ones. "Eliana, please believe me. Had I known what would happen, had I even guessed what would come of all this, I _would_ have told you. I would never have left you unknowing and defenseless against it all…"

"There's more to it than that, isn't there, Ardeth?" Her voice was steady, but her eyes were cold on his. "Imhotep told me how the Med Jai have persecuted him—_us_—over the centuries. You are not my _friend_, are you? You are here to watch me, to guard this secret of yours, and to destroy him…"

Ardeth sighed. How had it gotten this complex, this twisted? He tried again to explain himself, starting at the beginning this time.

"I am a Med Jai, Eliana. I can trace my ancestry back to the early days of Egypt. My forefathers were the elite guard of the Pharaohs, from times well before Seti, or Imhotep, or…" He paused. "Or Anck-su-namun."

"That's an impressive pedigree, Ardeth, but so what? You're descended from a long line of spies and liars?" She laughed derisively, turning her face away.

He held back the flare of anger he felt at her words. "My ancestors, from time immemorial, have been charged with the task of safeguarding the pharaohs and keeping safe the secrets of our order. From the time of Seti onwards, that task has expanded to include watching over the sands of Egypt to ensure that the Creature is not awakened, or if so, that he is quickly put back in his grave."

"Will you _stop_ calling him that?" She swallowed the lump in her throat, the rising anguish. He spoke of Imhotep like he was a dead man, some sort of supernatural monster. She knew the truth of him, had seen it in the dark fire of his eyes, felt it in the burning heat of his skin. He had held her in his arms and loved her, and she had loved him in return. She _did_ love him. "He is not a 'creature,' he is not a monster!" She could feel her eyes begin to burn, and she knew that tears were only moments away. "And if he is, what am I, then? My crime was no less than his…"

Ardeth's voice was gentle; his hands warm on her shoulders. "He is what the Med Jai forged—he is cursed, damned for all these centuries, damned for all eternity. _You_ are whatever the gods have willed you to become, over however many lifetimes you have lived. The curse placed upon Anck-su-namun," he stopped, when he saw the hard look she gave him, and nodded in understanding. "Upon _you_, was to bind you to the earth, never able to enter the next world. You would still be able to live out a mortal lifespan, find happiness in this world. Your punishment was to never be able to walk with the gods in the golden lands of the West."

She was confused now, and pulled away from his gently massaging hands. "Why? Why was Imhotep's curse so much worse than mine? Why has he been tortured like this? We _both_ killed Seti—why would only he suffer as he has?"

Ardeth stopped, taken aback. "He has not told you? I thought you said…"

"He told me about the past, about our past. He told me why we killed Seti." Her eyes narrowed, fastened on his. "Yes, Ardeth, there was a reason. A good one. Even I can see why they—we—did what we did." The blazing anger abated somewhat. "But why punish him so severely, when it was both of us…"

"He did not tell you the rest, then." Ardeth nodded in understanding. "He did not tell you that though it was both of you who killed the pharaoh, it was only you that the Med Jai found in Seti's chamber that day? Only you who stood over his lifeless body, still holding the bloody knife? That it was you who shouted a last confession and curse before plunging the knife into your own chest?" He saw even more color fade from her face, saw her knees buckle, and stepped forward quickly before she could fall. His arms now the only thing that held her up, he nodded at her. "Yes, Eliana, remember your childhood dreams, those terrors that plagued you. They were not dreams, or visions, or the creation of a damaged mind, as some would have you believe. They were memories."

She pushed his hands away, slid down the tree trunk and sat on the soft ground, hugging her arms around herself in a feeble mockery of self-protection. So much was now explained, so much made sense, except…

She raised her face to stare up at him. He was alarmed by the stark whiteness of her cheeks, the almost feverish look in her eyes. When she spoke, her voice a mere whisper, he had to strain to hear her. "Where was he? What happened?"

He sighed, understanding her question, bending down to rest on his haunches beside her. "He had not abandoned Anck-su-namun, Eliana. Far from it." Strangely, he felt as though he were defending Imhotep to her, for he realized, too late, how his words had made it sound. Briefly, he wondered if it would be better to let her think that the priest had abandoned her to her fate, but he had started with the truth; he would end with it, as well. "From what the Med Jai were able to learn from Imhotep's priests, before they were destroyed—mummified alive—he had to be literally dragged from Anck-su-namun's side. He was crazed with grief, would have died there with her, but some part of him knew that he had to remain alive for there to be any hope…"

"_Hope?_" She didn't understand. Anck-su-namun had died that day, confessed to the crime and sacrificed herself to save Imhotep. What hope could there have been, for her or for them?

"Do not forget who he is, Eliana, who he was. He was the high priest of Osiris, Lord of the Underworld. Imhotep and his priests were not only healers and scholars, they were the ones to whom was entrusted the rites and rituals of mummification—of preparing the bodies of the deceased for their journey to the afterlife. Imhotep was privy to dark secrets and arcane knowledge that would make most men cringe in fear. There _was_ hope. But he had to remain alive to bring that hope to fruition…" He stopped, not sure if she was up to hearing the rest. The nod she gave him, the haunted look in her eyes, was his answer. He continued.

"You died that day. Thinking that you had acted alone, the Med Jai brought your body to the temple, invoking the sacred law, demanding that it be prepared for burial and that the curse be laid upon your soul. Imhotep himself was the one who read from the golden book of Amun-Re, condemning you for all eternity." He saw the sick look on her face, and odd though it was, once again felt compelled to speak in the priest's defense. "He had no choice, Eliana. As high priest, it was his bound duty to fulfill the sacred law. And at any rate, it did not matter, for the scheme you both had concocted was unfolding rapidly, just as you had hoped."

Eliana felt cold all the way down to her soul, as she imagined the horror of that time, of the malignant forces of that long-ago era working their foul magic, magic that echoed up through ages, reaching all the way to the present. Her inherent disbelief in the supernatural was rapidly giving way to a terrified acceptance, a sort of horrified faith. She listened in silence as Ardeth finished the story.

"After you had been prepared for burial, mummified, your organs removed, after you had lain in state for the proscribed period, you were laid to rest in an unmarked, unhallowed grave." A part of him, the part that had been born and raised in the latter part of the twentieth century, wondered at the strangeness of the story he was telling. Another part, that which had been shaped and forged by the inescapable legacy of the Med Jai, calmly accepted it as irrefutable truth. "That very night, Imhotep and his inner circle of priests, the ones he trusted the most, those who had been with you when Seti was killed, stole your body and carried you off to Hamunaptra, the sacred city of the dead. There, he laid your body on the altar, spread the canopic jars around you, and read from the forbidden black Book of the Dead, calling your soul back from the afterlife, reanimating your corpse."

She gave a small moan, closing her eyes, imagining the horror of that macabre ritual. Ardeth's voice droned on, laying out the history in painful precision.

"What he did was blasphemy, akin to spitting in the face of the gods. To save you, to bring you back from the dead, he threw away everything he had ever stood for, as high priest of Osiris. The black book was cursed, the spells and rituals anathema to the god he claimed to serve. Had one of his priests not defected, confessing this treason to the Med Jai, had the Med Jai not found him and cursed him, his own god would have done so. Your soul had been cursed already; to save you, he cursed his own as well."

He watched as tears streamed unchecked down her face, as she sat, stunned and weeping. There was a mere handful of sentences left. "The priest confessed, and the Med Jai found them there, in the bowels of Hamunaptra. Before he could finish his unholy incantation, before the body of Anck-su-namun—your body—could be completely restored, the Med Jai seized Imhotep, stopped him. The life seeped out from your corpse, leaving nothing but a hollow husk once more. As for Imhotep and his priests…

"The priests were killed, mummified alive, even the one who had at the last moment confessed to his unholy treason. No one could be left alive who knew what had transpired. Imhotep was forced to watch as this sentence was carried out. As for him, for the part he played, my forefathers called upon the worst curse they had at their disposal, the Hom Dai, and…"

Eliana held up a shaking hand, waving away his words, refusing to look at him. "Don't," she said, her voice quavering. "Don't. He told me about the Hom Dai. I don't need to hear it again. Please."

Ardeth watched her as she shook with silent tears, her head bowed over her bent knees. He couldn't be certain, but… He asked the question. "These tears of yours. They are not for yourself, are they? You have not remembered your past, have you? They are for _him_."

Lifting her head, she wiped her eyes with her shirt sleeve. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wet, tears still leaking from the corners. She said nothing, just stared at the Med Jai, locked in her own private misery.

"What has he done to you Eliana? If you do not remember your past, if even he could not bring it back to you, you are safe. Anck-su-namun is gone; only Eliana remains. I have come to know you, to care for you. You are nothing like you were then, nothing like her. Nothing like the previous incarnations." He had not told her about Meela, the most recent incarnation. There was only so much that he would heap upon her in the space of one day. Discovering what a treacherous, murderous woman she had been only one lifetime ago would do her no good, might make it worse, in fact. She was Eliana now, and Eliana was a good person, a decent person. He had no way of knowing what sort of strange dice game the gods played when choosing how or when to bring a soul back, but they had done well this time around. Even the Med Jai elders would find no evil in the woman before him now. And if that was so…

He paused, not sure if he should continue in the direction his thoughts were taking him. He was perilously close to forsaking his sacred duty, his age-old obligation to the Med Jai. What he was contemplating would be called treachery by some, a perversion of his loyalty to the twelve tribes. But he kept on, the words coming almost of their own volition. "I can help you Eliana. It is within the powers of the Med Jai to release you from the curse. If the elders of the twelve tribes agree, it can be lifted from you, its bonds on your soul broken…"

She stopped him with a single word. "No." Lifting her tear-streaked face to his, she explained the apparent folly of her decision. "I've betrayed him once already—not in this life, but the one just past. I will not betray him again. The curse is either lifted or not—and he seems to believe that it may be—but one way or the other, it is lifted from both of us, or neither. I will not leave him alone in this. Not again."

Ardeth listened silently, reading between the lines of the words she spoke. When she had finished, all he could find within himself to say was a single phrase. "I see."

"Do you, Ardeth? If you do, you're ahead of the game, because I don't understand a bit of it."

"You have feelings for him, then? Even though you don't remember your past? Even though your feelings place you in terrible danger?" He stood up, pacing back and forth in front of her, clearly agitated.

"Who am I in danger from, Ardeth? Him? I don't think so. He says he is mortal, released from the Hom Dai by the powers of Amun-Re himself. His only goal is to complete some mission for the god so that the curse will be lifted. After that, he clearly intends to go on to whatever afterlife has been promised him. He wants to die." Trying to keep the bitterness from her voice, she attempted to make the Med Jai understand. "He doesn't want me, he doesn't trust me. Meela betrayed him—_I_ betrayed him—and that killed any love he felt for her…for me. He has made that perfectly clear. There is nothing between us anymore. It is over. All he wants now is death, the death that he should have experienced three thousand years ago. Three millennia is a long time to suffer, Ardeth."

He said nothing, so she went on. "So who does that leave? You? Am I in danger from you? From the Med Jai? I suppose I am, since I am Anck-su-namun reborn. What will you do, Ardeth? Destroy him? Kill me? Is that how you will protect your secrets?"

That broke his silence. "Eliana, I do not wish to harm you. I _will not_ harm you. As for the Crea…" He stopped. "As for Imhotep, I can make no guarantees. If he does as you say, if he harms no one, if he seeks only to die, I cannot say what the Med Jai will do. They may allow him to go on to the afterlife. As you said, three thousand years is a long time. Perhaps they will feel that he has been punished sufficiently." He paused, clearly uncomfortable with what he must say. "But you must know, Eliana, that in the past, during the two other times he was awakened, he was a remorseless monster—a raging, murderous killer. Had he not been stopped, only the gods themselves know what would have happened. We cannot allow that. Should any of the powers of the Hom Dai remain, should he revert to what he was last, he is a plague to all of the Earth. He must—he _will_—be stopped."

Her gaze was level, steady. "I understand that, Ardeth."

"And still you wish to remain locked with him in this curse?" He couldn't believe it. "What has he done to you, Eliana? What power does he have over you?"

He stared at her, unblinking, until her gaze faltered, her eyes dropping from his. When she spoke, her voice was a quiet, sad whisper. "I love him."

Ardeth felt despair shoot through him, cold as ice, bitter as gall. So they were doomed again, the endless cycle repeating itself once more. _Damn him! _Even mortal, if that was truly what he was, Imhotep was a plague.

With a sigh, he extended a hand to Eliana, holding it out until she finally, hesitantly accepted it. Pulling her up, he looked at her for a long time, staring into the green of her eyes, a weight of sadness filling his own. "If that is so, Eliana, you need a friend now more than ever." Tugging ever so slightly on the hand he held in his, he pulled her into a soft, comforting embrace. For a second, she held herself rigid within his arms, not willing to trust him. Finally, though, her own sorrow won out, and she sank into the hug, lying her head on his shoulder, hugging him back, as the feelings of friendship they had shared only scant days ago came trickling back. Once again, she had a friend in Ardeth Bay. Knowing that, she gave into the misery she felt, and let the tears come.

Ardeth said nothing, just held her in his arms, quietly stroking the burnished auburn of her hair, whispering nonsensical words of comfort into the silky strands.

* * *

In the end, he could not stay away. He tried. He forced himself to go looking for the doctor, who he had known in another life as Evelyn Carnahan, in another still as Nefertiri. He finally discovered her, talking with the French doctor, discussing the sick man's case, and he hadn't wanted to disturb them. He would approach her later, when she was alone. Something told him that these new doctors would not be receptive to him. There was still some time, but he had to speak to her soon, or it would be too late. But for now… 

He had known immediately that he had made a mistake in treating Eliana as he had this morning. She deserved better from him, after what they had shared last night. Even if he had made no promises, even though he had been perfectly blunt about what their future held, he still owed her something. And he wanted to see her. There was no denying the surge of joy that had passed through him when he saw her this morning; no refuting the fierce rush of desire, of possessiveness, that had filled him, even though he had masked it well. Oh, he _wanted_ to deny it, he wanted with everything in him to not care about her, but he couldn't. It would be a lie, and after all this time, at the very least, Imhotep would be honest with himself. He _did_ care. Against every bit of wisdom he possessed, every scrap of self-preservation, every ounce of pride, he cared.

And so, against his better judgment, his heart had finally triumphed over his stubborn mind, and he had gone looking for her. He hadn't had to go far. She was at the edge of the camp, locked in intense conversation with the Med Jai. He almost interrupted them; started forward, in fact, to do so, but at the last minute, some inner sense held him back, and he watched, concealed from their sight, as their conversation played out.

He was too far to hear the words they spoke, but close enough to see the tears on her face, and the look of protectiveness on the Med Jai's. He had no way of knowing what they talked of, but it was clear that she was upset, and the Med Jai was intent on offering her comfort. _Comfort; and what else?_ He watched as the Med Jai pulled her up and into the comforting circle of his arms, as Eliana first stiffened and then relaxed into Ardeth Bay's embrace, leaning her head on his shoulder, accepting his touch, placing her own arms around his waist.

He turned away, betrayed again.

_Fool!_ He cursed himself, cursed his awful weakness, cursed the gods, the Med Jai, and most of all, he cursed the scheming witch of a woman he could not manage to weed out of his system, whose touch was poison, whose kiss was fatal to his soul.

Shard by shard, the icy wall around his heart, the wall that had finally begun to thaw, re-formed, becoming even thicker and colder than before, quickly freezing the tiny shoot of hope that had begun to grow there. He turned on his heel, going in search of Nefertiri, or Evelyn, or whoever she was now. He would see the sick man now, and by the gods, no one would stop him, least of all that woman. Imhotep was tired of living, and only she stood between him and the end. The gods help her if she refused to get out of his way.

* * *

Getting in his way was the furthest thing from Callie's mind. On the contrary, when he asked to speak to her about Eric—explaining, as Eliana had recommended, that he had been trained long ago in alternative medicine—she welcomed him. Eric's condition had deteriorated steadily, even since the appearance of the World Health Organization team, and she was at a loss to come up with some way to help him. 

Even if the lab report came in today, immediately, confirming what she and the other doctors suspected, Callie knew there was nothing to be done for Eric. Ebola was a hideous, virulent disease, fatal in ninety percent of all cases, and there was little to do except offer supportive care and watch as the virus burned its way through the host's body. Some people survived it; most didn't. Only time would tell. So if this newcomer, this Egyptian, could offer any help at all, she was more than happy to give him access to the patient.

Within minutes of his approach, she was ushering him inside the tent that still housed Eric. It would not be torn down until after he and Doug had been transported. Then, it would be ripped down and burned. After a brief exchange, Imhotep had accepted the face mask and latex gloves, mostly because Callie had all but forced them on him, refusing to let him in without them. Imhotep had followed her inside, his eyes rapidly adjusting to the gloom, and the closeness of the interior; but the stench of Eric's sickness hit him like a brick wall. It had been a very long time since he had smelled this sickly sweet smell of looming death. Then again, as he recalled the eternity he had spent trapped in the sarcophagus, with only the skittering of the beetles and the smell of his own rotting flesh for company, maybe it hadn't been that long ago at all.

As he took in the sight and smell of the sick young man, the words of her whispered warning still rang in his ears. "Careful," she had said, glancing worriedly at him. "I don't know why you didn't want all the protective clothing, but you _have_ to wear it, and you need to be very cautious besides. He's terribly close to bleeding out, and if you should touch him, or if he coughs in your face…" She let the rest go unsaid, still worried about the fact that Doug had somehow gotten ill without overt contact with infected fluid.

He had looked at her and nodded, knowing that the disease jumped from host to host through direct contact with body fluids, and sometimes in other mysterious ways, as well. But unlike Callie, who had never before treated an Ebola patient, he had seen this disease before, long ago, and he knew he was not at risk. The few times he had cared for people suffering from this sickness, or one like it, Imhotep had been covered in their blood, had been coughed at, regurgitated on, and had still not fallen ill. It was strange, one of the many mysteries he had witnessed during his years of service in the temple, but he had attributed it to his being under the protective care of his god. While the sick and dying rotted all around him, when even some of the healer priests fell prey to the ghastly illness, Imhotep alone remained healthy and well. At the time, other than being very, very relieved, he hadn't questioned his good fortune.

He knelt by Eric, taking in the bloody spittle that trailed from one corner of his mouth, the whites of his eyes that were now fiery red, and the terrible creeping rash that covered his body. Eric was still, unresponsive, lying there while the blood curdled inside his still-living body. Imhotep felt for the pulse point in the young man's neck, and finding it, felt the sluggish and unsteady beat of his heart. It had taken only a minute, just a brief examination, but Imhotep knew, beyond a doubt, that this was indeed the plague to which Amun-Re had referred. It could be nothing else. This disease was ancient, having plagued the people in this corner of the world for countless millennia, appearing and disappearing at will, carving out a sweeping path of destruction while it was awake, and then fading silently back into the oblivion from whence it came. In his time, the sickness had been called Red Death. It was indeed a plague, and it seemed no great surprise to discover that even the gods themselves wanted it obliterated.

Realizing that, though, and actually _doing_ the obliterating, were two different things. Imhotep leaned back, balancing on the balls of his feet. Never before had this particular disease been cured. Oh, some—a very few—had recovered from it, and others, like himself, had been exposed to it but not become ill. For the most part, though, it ate its way through an affected population, stopping only when it could find no more bodies to act as host. In his time, it had destroyed whole cities, laying them to waste, leaving behind nothing but a ghastly, oozing tomb. Imhotep knew of no cure—but he did remember something that had slowed its progress just a bit, buying time for the ill person to muster some reserves of strength to fight it off.

* * *

The plant grew in the wild, all across Egypt, and when its dried petals were ground into a fine powder, mixed with the clear waters of the Nile and given to a person suffering from the bleeding disease, it had near miraculous restorative properties. For a short while, before the virus simply overcame it, it had the effect of staunching the never-ending bloody ooze. In today's medical terms, it restored the blood's natural clotting properties. In the terminology of ancient Egypt, it served to dry up the river of blood. 

Imhotep had no idea if the plant grew in the jungle of Ahm Shere, but he could certainly look for it. It was possible that it was here, and if so, it might buy Eric some time while the doctors of this age worked their miracles. With a nod to Callie, he indicated that he had finished his examination of Eric. She stood, leaving the sick man's tent, and with a solemn glance back at Eric, Imhotep followed.

Once outside, he stripped off the mask and gloves, disposing of them in the container Callie pointed out. She removed hers as well, and for a moment, they stood staring at each other, saying nothing. Finally, Imhotep broke the silence.

"There is a plant, a species native to Egypt, that can be given in such circumstances." He wasn't sure of its Hebrew name, or if there _was_ a Hebrew name for it, so he went on, describing it as best as he could. "It is a flower that grows in the shade, where the soil is damp. It used to grow prolifically in the Nile delta. It may be that it grows within the jungle of Ahm Shere as well. I will look for it, mix the tonic, and give it to Eric. Will you help me?"

She looked dubious. "A _plant_, you say? I've never heard of such a thing used to treat Ebola. People have been looking for a cure for this disease for decades, and no one has ever mentioned a _plant_ before…"

"It is not a cure," he pointed out, quick to caution her. "At best, it is a means for prolonging his life while we search for a cure, if there is such a thing." He looked at her, his gaze steady and sober. "I realize you have probably not heard of this before. It is an old remedy—very old. But I have seen it work, and I can promise that it does help, in some cases. Will you help me with this?"

The doubt was still there, but Callie was, first and foremost, a healer. She wanted Eric to recover, was willing to try almost anything to help him. When she spoke again, her voice was sure, steady. "Yes. I'll help you. But we need to get him moved first. Dr. Robillard wants to relocate to the pyramid as soon as possible."

Imhotep's face registered his doubts. "Is he strong enough to survive the journey there?"

"Not if we wait much longer," she said, her own doubts clear. "But if we get going soon, he should be all right. He and Doug, both."

"Doug? Who is Doug?" _There was another sick man?_

Quickly, Callie filled him in on Doug's condition, which was steadily following the same progression as Eric's. Only the day before yesterday, Doug had complained of a backache and headache. Yesterday, he had developed the nagging cough. This morning, when she had checked on him, Callie had seen the tell tale beginnings of the rash. Not wanting to frighten Doug, she had said nothing, just repeated her warning for him to remain in bed for a day or so. To Imhotep, she voiced her real concern—that although Doug had had absolutely no contact with the fluid from the statue, or from Eric, he had come down with the disease anyway. That meant the disease was airborne. That meant they were all in danger.

Imhotep nodded, realizing the seriousness of the situation, if that was indeed the case. "I understand," he said, looking back at the thin nylon barrier that was all that stood between Eric's disease and the rest of the camp. "We must work quickly, then."

She was quick to agree. "Very quickly. I'm afraid Eric is running out of time…" She stopped, as she saw Imhotep looking over her shoulder. Turning, she saw Dr. Robillard approaching, with Professors Bernstein and Hamid hard at his heels. Trailing behind them was the irritating man she had met yesterday, that obnoxious reporter from the American newspaper. Stifling an inward groan, she pasted a polite smile on her face.

"Are we ready for the move, gentlemen?" Her voice betrayed nothing of her concerns. It was calm and steady, as always.

"We are ready, Dr. al Faran," Robillard answered. "One of my staff will be assisting with the transfer. This gentleman," he pointed at the reporter, who smiled gamely at her, "will be helping as well."

He cast a dubious look at Bernstein and Hamid. "Apparently, no one else could be found to help, so Professors Bernstein and Hamid have kindly offered…"

"I will assist with the transfer," Imhotep stepped forward, and even in the rough worker's garb he wore, his regal bearing brooked no refusal, even if they had been inclined to turn down his offer. He turned to Bernstein, providing the man with a reasonable means of gracefully stepping down from the task. "You cannot supervise the relocation, if you are assisting here. Please allow me to do this for you." Although it was phrased as a request, it was clearly a statement of what would transpire. Bernstein bristled at the commanding tone, but agreed nonetheless. The younger man, for all that the archaeologist didn't trust him, would make a better human gurney for Eric.

"Well, that's a relief," said Robillard, obviously pleased. "Now if we could only find one more…"

"You have one." Ardeth Bay stepped forward. He had walked up from behind Eric's tent, silent and unnoticed, moving with his characteristic Med Jai stealth. "I will assist as well." Though he ostensibly spoke to the French doctor, his dark brown eyes were focused on Imhotep, clearly daring the Egyptian to object. The priest said nothing, his face as implacable and emotionless as always. Inside, though, he seethed, stifling the almost overwhelming urge to throttle the man. _And where was Eliana?_

Eyes not leaving Imhotep, Bay spoke to the doctor once again. "When will we leave for the pyramid?"

Robillard beamed at him, all too happy, now that he had his crew of able-bodied volunteers. "Right away," he replied. "We'll get you outfitted with gloves and masks, load the patients onto the stretchers, and we'll be off. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

Imhotep said nothing, only nodded. Ardeth was silent as well. Robillard hustled off, intent on rounding up the supplies they would need. Bernstein and Hamid, assured that the sick young men were in capable hands, headed back to supervise the others. Connelly, an amiable grin on his face, turned to Callie and winked. "Nothing like a nice walk through the jungle on a beautiful morning like this, huh?"

Rolling her eyes, she turned away, walking back towards Eric's tent. As she passed Imhotep, she paused briefly. "Thank you," she mouthed. She hadn't spoken aloud, but the priest understood her anyway. He bowed his head in a brief salute, watching her as she rounded the corner of Eric's tent and headed off, picking up her doctor's bag on the way.

Imhotep couldn't help but be surprised at her friendly acceptance of him. Not even a flicker of awareness had shone in her eyes when he had first approached her; nothing at all indicated that she sensed anything was amiss. He had seen her reaction to Connelly when they first met; he knew she had recognized the younger man on some level. But as for him, the doctor seemed blithely unaware of any previous connection. The memory of her past lives was apparently even more deeply buried than was Eliana's. _Thank the gods for that._ The last thing Imhotep needed was to have this sublimely irritating woman suspicious of him. He corrected himself. In this lifetime, she was not irritating at all, even though as Evelyn Carnahan, she and her family had been the equivalent of his own personal plague. Even as Nefertiri, she had managed to be a harbinger of doom, alerting the Med Jai to the peril of her father, Seti, before Imhotep and Anck-su-namun had had time to escape. In this lifetime, though, she was a dedicated doctor, knowledgeable about her field, dedicated to her patients, and open to the concept of new ideas, even those not within the realm of traditional medicine.

Strangely enough, Imhotep found himself almost liking the woman.

* * *

"She says you are mortal." Ardeth spoke from the head of Eric's stretcher, directing his words at Imhotep's back. The priest gave no indication that he had heard, just continued on the path as before, carrying the foot of the transport device. No change in posture; no subtle tensing of muscles; nothing. For all the reaction he gave, Imhotep might as well not have heard him. Ardeth would be damned before he spoke to the arrogant bastard again. 

The silence dragged on, as the Med Jai and the priest carried the oozing, but still-breathing carcass of the sick man towards the pyramid. The little procession traveled single file through the trees, with Robillard and the archaeologists at the lead, followed by the Sudanese, the students and then the workers. The stretchers bearing the sick men trailed behind, as much due to the slow pace required for their transport as it was to the fact that no one particularly cared to be near them. Connelly and the medic from the World Health Organization were just ahead of them, carrying Doug. Imhotep knew that Eliana was up ahead as well, with her father and the other men; he knew, also, that she still had the Scepter. He could only hope that the artifact's protective powers were strong enough to extend through the entire caravan. Should the Pygmy mummies choose this moment to attack, he didn't hold much hope that they could outrun them, and they couldn't leave the sick men behind. No, their only hope was in the Scepter and its ability to ward off the denizens of Ahm Shere.

He gave some thought to the Med Jai's statement, debating whether to answer it. In the end, he could see no reason for _not_ doing so. It was, in fact, the truth. But still, he bristled at the thought of Ardeth Bay talking with Eliana about him. "She told you that?" The words had the ring of an accusation.

Ardeth looked at the tall Egyptian, somewhat surprised. The silence had stretched so long, he had begun to think that the priest actually _hadn't_ heard him. He kept his voice carefully neutral as he answered. "She said that is what you believe."

"It is true." Imhotep's voice was expressionless as well, an emotionless void.

"She also says that the curse has been lifted. _You_ have said that, as well." Ardeth didn't necessarily want to play twenty questions with the priest, but the hike was taking a while, and they had time. And he needed to know.

"So says the great god, Amun-Re." Imhotep provided the most basic of answers, not at all forthcoming about the details.

Ardeth stifled a sigh. "Why would he do such a thing? The Med Jai cursed you in his name, after all…"

Finally, some trace of irritation slipped out in Imhotep's words. "Perhaps the gods know what mere men cannot hope to know. Perhaps the gods have a plan that is at odds with the plans of the Med Jai." He paused, anger flaring in him, burning outwards, towards the man who embodied everything he had come to hate. "Or perhaps the Med Jai were wrong from the very beginning."

"_Wrong?_ The Med Jai were not wrong. Do you deny that you and your lover murdered the pharaoh—murdered him in cold blood? You cannot. For that alone, you earned death." He paused, letting that accusation sink in, then delivered the final blow. "For what you did later, you purchased damnation."

"You have no idea, Med Jai, no idea at all." Imhotep's voice was quieter now, but its softness served to heighten the intensity of his words. "You were not there, you did not know…" The softness faded from his voice, replaced by a steely coldness. "No man on earth deserved death more than Seti."

"And still you speak your treason—Eliana herself has been convinced that what you did was just, righteous. You have somehow convinced her, even without benefit of direct memory of the event, that your murderous crime was warranted. How she could believe that, I do not know." He shook his head slowly, disbelief painted as clearly as the tattoos on his darkly handsome features.

Imhotep chose to ignore him. So Eliana had defended their actions to the Med Jai? Even without remembering her life as Anck-su-namun? _Why would she do that?_ Once again, the silence stretched on, until Bay broke it once more.

"What do you want, priest?" His voice was low, demanding. "She says that you only wish to complete some task and then seek death, if the curse is truly lifted. Is that so?"

Imhotep let out an almost imperceptible sigh. How much _had_ she told the Med Jai? Again, though, there was no reason not to tell him; in fact, there were several very good reasons _for_ doing so. "She spoke truly, Med Jai. That is indeed what I seek."

"Why? Why would you seek to end your life, if you can call it that? In the past, during your last awakenings, you embraced the powers of the Hom Dai with your entire being, your whole soul. You lusted after the power; gloried in it. What is different now? Why should I believe you? Why should _any_ of the Med Jai believe?"

Imhotep slowed, forcing the Med Jai to reduce his speed, as well. Anger sizzled in his every word. "I do not care if you believe, Med Jai. What you or any of your kind think is immaterial. You mean less than nothing to me." Slowing even more, he came to a halt, shifting the burden of the stretcher from one hand to the other, turning to face his foe. "But for the sake of expediency, I will explain it to you. Perhaps then, you will stay out of my way, let me complete the task. Listen well, for you will not hear this from me again."

Ardeth nodded, his eyes locked on the glittering coals that were the priest's eyes. In the obsidian-dark depths, he could see the burning hatred for him, for all the Med Jai. "Speak, priest."

Imhotep took a breath, and began. "I did not ask for the powers of the Hom Dai. They were a gift," his lips twisted in an evil grimace, "from you and your brethren. And they were useful to me, useful to my goal, when last I walked the earth."

"Anck-su-namun?" Ardeth queried, already knowing the answer.

Imhotep's head bowed in a brief nod. "Yes. The powers of the Hom Dai would allow me to bring back Anck-su-namun, return to her the life that you had stolen, return her to me. Beyond that, they would serve as reparation for all that you had taken from us—and all the misery you had given." For a moment, Imhotep was silent, as three thousand years of suffering replayed themselves in his mind.

Ardeth kept silent, not wanting to cut short the priest's revelations. Soon enough, Imhotep went on. "I was a fool, Med Jai. The last time, in my last awakening, Anck-su-namun was returned to me—reborn in the body of Meela, restored in spirit through the power of the black book. You are familiar with this tale, I suppose?" Ardeth nodded. "Very well, then, I will not elaborate, except to say again that I was a fool. I had somehow expected that her love was as strong as mine—able to withstand anything, even the weight of three thousand years of agony. I was wrong. My love had endured; hers had not. In the end, it was not enough. She left, and I…" He faltered, not willing to let the Med Jai see this much of his exposed soul.

"I am familiar with the story, Imhotep," Ardeth cut in, his voice almost gentle. "Meela left you, and you cast yourself into the fiery pit of Anubis. O'Connell and his family escaped, and the pyramid was sucked down into the sands of the desert from which it had sprung."

Imhotep nodded. "It is as you say."

"But what of this awakening, priest? How has this one come about? I know how the Oasis was reborn. I do not know how _you_ were."

Imhotep shrugged. "Eliana is Anck-su-namun. Meela. However many other lives she has lived over the ages. On some level, I suppose, she remembers. She remembered enough to be drawn to the pit, to find the Scepter, to let her instincts lead her to the spell which brought me back." He shook his head, looking off into the deep green of the jungle, still confused as to what, exactly, she had done. Explaining it to the Med Jai was difficult, when he himself did not understand. "Something she did pulled me back from the abyss, caused the great god himself to intercede. I do not know what it was. I cannot explain it."

His eyes met those of the Med Jai once again. "As for the curse, Amun-Re himself spoke to me, saying that it would be lifted, should I manage to complete a task for him, stop the progression of some plague…"

"A plague?" Ardeth's voice registered his confusion. "What plague?"

Imhotep pointed towards the man they held between them with a nod of his head. "The plague is before your eyes, eating through the body of this man."

"_This_ is the plague? This is probably Ebola." Again, the disbelief. He went on, explaining the obvious, asking the obvious, as well. "There is no cure for Ebola. What can you do to stop it?"

Imhotep's dark eyes took on a haunted look. "I do not know."

Ardeth shook his head, not knowing what to think, what to believe. Assuming the priest was telling the truth in the first place was almost more than he was prepared to do. But it would explain a few things, like why Imhotep had come to the camp in the first place, instead of simply taking Eliana and going away. He thought for a few moments, then spoke. "Suppose I believe you. What then? If you are able to somehow stop this…plague, which I doubt is possible, what will happen? You say you're mortal, that the curse is lifted. What will you do then?"

Imhotep stared straight into his eyes, straight into his soul. "I will die."

Ardeth snorted in derision. "Eliana said as much. Said that you wished for nothing more. That I _cannot_ believe."

"No?" Imhotep looked almost surprised. "Why is that so difficult a concept? Think, Med Jai, think on it well. My life should have ended over three millennia ago. Instead, I was bound to the Earth, bound to this body, damned for all time by this curse your forefathers placed on my soul. I watched as the scarabs feasted on my flesh, felt every bite, every skittering touch of their feet. Dead, but still alive, I watched—felt—my flesh fall in strips from my bones. My mind called out in agony, but there was no answer, never an answer. I was alone. Completely, utterly alone, buried under the sands of the desert for countless ages, waiting, waiting…" He bowed his head, lost in some private agony. When he lifted it again, his eyes were cold as stone, his face set in an expressionless mask.

"The only thing that kept me sane, as sane, I suppose, as was possible, was the love I had for Anck-su-namun, the love I thought she had for me. It was still possible, if I could somehow break free, to use the powers I knew the Hom Dai had given me—would give me—to restore her, to restore our love. That is all I had. It was enough. It had to be enough." He shook his head.

"In the end, it was not enough at all."

Ardeth nodded. Strangely enough, he found that he understood the Creature, after all. At some level, he almost pitied him. He had loved deeply, completely. The woman he loved, who he believed loved him as well, had abandoned him to his fate, and walked away. Almost, almost, he was tempted to tell the priest what Eliana had told him just that morning. Surely Imhotep himself had realized that the woman Eliana had become was as different from whom she had been as night was from day…

Then, realizing the insane turn his thoughts had taken—_Was_ _he _trying_ to convince Imhotep to stay? His Med Jai brethren would certainly condemn him for a traitor, if that were so_—he bit back the words. Eliana would not thank him for his interference, and he realized that he was reacting in a very illogical way to the priest's tale. This man was his ancient, timeless enemy—how on earth could he pity the man? Shaking off the strange sensation, he simply clarified what the priest had already said. "So now you seek to die and go on to the afterlife? Amun-Re has promised you this?"

Imhotep nodded. "He has."

Neither man spoke for a long while, as they stared at each other across the length of the stretcher, across the body of the disease-ridden man. Finally, Ardeth broke the silence, inclining his head in a brief salute. "I do not know why, priest, but I am led to believe you in this." He stared long and hard into the priest's expressionless gaze, then nodded again. "Very well, I will do as she asks—you will be allowed to attempt this, and if you succeed, I will petition the Med Jai elders to let you go on to the afterlife. Perhaps you, and the great god, are right—three thousand years of punishment may be sufficient, and ridding the world of this plague—if you truly can do so—would be one way to repay your debt to humanity.

"But rest assured, Imhotep. I will be watching you closely, and should I see any reason to doubt what you have said, I will myself return you to your grave."

Imhotep looked at him for a long moment before allowing that evil grimace to crawl up his face and tip down the corner of his mouth in a mocking smile. His eyes sparked with a demonic light. "I would expect nothing less, Med Jai. I am sure you would try." Leaving the Med Jai in no doubt about whom Imhotep felt would prevail in such an encounter, he turned once again, shifting the stretcher so that he faced forward once more.

Moving in silence, the two men continued their journey, carrying Eric's disease-ravaged body towards the beckoning golden pyramid. In the soft early afternoon light that filtered down through the trees, the uneasy truce stretched between them, reed-thin and brittle as old bones.

* * *

Callie finished settling Doug and Eric into their new accommodations, two stark white isolation bubbles that the World Health Organization medics had set up within one of the interior rooms of the pyramid. That room, a small antechamber far removed from the great hall, accessible only via a long, drafty corridor, now bore an unlikely resemblance to any hospital room, anywhere on the planet. In fact, except for the stone walls, now scrubbed down and disinfected with gallons of bleach, and the lack of any windows, Callie would have thought she _was_ in a hospital. The two self-contained chambers sat on one side of the room, a portable lab stretched the length of the opposite wall. In one corner, generators powered the life support equipment and monitors that the medics had brought with them. Callie had to admit that for all the inconvenience of moving the camp, this was a much better set up, for both the doctors and the patients. 

Smiling at one of the medics who would remain with the young men to continuously monitor their vitals, Callie stripped off her gloves and mask and deposited them in a red-lined garbage container before leaving the sick room.

At the end of the hallway, she saw Imhotep waiting for her. Smiling, she thanked him again for helping to move Eric. Brushing away the thanks, he spoke with unusual abruptness. "How are they? Did the relocation worsen their condition?"

She shook her head. "No. Doug made the move perfectly. He's stable now, in good hands. Eric was in bad shape to begin with. I doubt that the move could have made him worse. They'll have access to better equipment now, better care." She looked up at him. "It was right to move them."

He nodded. "Good."

She took him by the arm, leading him down another hallway, this one leading towards the exterior. "Why don't you tell me a little more about this plant you're looking for?"

His expression grew troubled. "I watched for it on the way here. It is not an unusual species of plant, but I could find it nowhere…"

"Doctor al Faran!" Both Imhotep and Callie turned when they heard her name bellowed down the hallway. A winded, flushed Robillard advanced on them. The man was upset, visibly shaken. "Stop! We must talk!"

Callie stepped forward. As usual, her face was calm, her expression serene. "Yes? What is it, Dr. Robillard?" She waited for the French doctor to catch his breath, before asking again. "What's wrong?"

"Everything is wrong! I just got off the sat phone with the lab in Khartoum, Doctor. The test results are in. It is indeed a filovirus we're dealing with—Eric's blood tested positive, and the fluid from that statue was swimming with it—there was almost more virus than fluid in that sample. The stuff is lethal…"

"As we suspected, Doctor Robillard." Callie watched him carefully, alarmed at his visible agitation. Surely he had dealt with filoviruses before? "So this _is_ Ebola we're dealing with, then?"

He nodded first, then changed his mind and shook his head. Finally, he shrugged. "It is, and it isn't. It's Ebola, yes, but not one of any of the known strains—not Sudan, not Zaire, not Reston. And it's definitely not Marburg." He scratched his head, at a loss for words. "It has elements that are common to all of them, though, and a few unique characteristics of its own."

Callie looked at him, alarmed. "The lab was sure? They are positive this is a new strain?"

Robillard laughed—a grim, harsh bark that echoed down the walls of the corridor, bouncing off them like a ricocheting volley of ammunition. "New? No, not at all—at least not based on what they suspect. New to us, maybe, but…"

"Doctor, I don't understand you. Is this a new strain or not?" Callie was becoming worried about the man. His color was up, and his eyes had a peculiar, glazed look about them.

"It's new to us, Doctor al Faran—we've never seen it before. No one has." He pushed his reading glasses up onto his head, and rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. "But it's not new—if anything, it's ancient. The lab is convinced, based on what it's seen in your samples, and the characteristics of this virus compared to the others, that what we've got here is the grandpere of them all—a sort of viral missing link."

"What?" Callie asked again. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand. Are you saying…?"

"Yes, Doctor. This virus that you've found here is the great-great-great—who knows how many times great, when you're talking viruses—grandfather of Ebola. Whatever it is, the others all seem to be its offspring. It's incredibly old, incredibly virulent, incredibly lethal."

Callie said nothing as Robillard pulled his glasses back down off his head, pushing them up onto the bridge of his nose. He looked more tired, now, than anything else. She put a hand on his shoulder. "What are we going to do about this, Doctor Robillard?"

"What can we do? We'll treat them like any other Ebola case. Provide them with supportive care, watch their vitals, hope like hell they're among the lucky ten percent who pull through and survive. Although Eric doesn't look like he's got too much luck left in him."

She frowned, not willing to give up on Eric just yet. Robillard patted her hand. "Don't worry; we're not giving up on him. He may surprise us all." He took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. "In the meantime, the lab has the blood and fluid samples, and they're being prepared for shipment to the World Health Organization headquarters for further study. The infectious disease specialists are very excited about this, you know, in an academic sort of way. It's understandable, I imagine. It's not every day you find something like this…"

"No, not at all," she said, glancing over at Imhotep. The Egyptian stood off to the side, watching them impassively, but she saw the flicker of interest in his eyes. It was obvious that he realized Robillard had gotten some important news. Since she and the doctor had spoken in French, she knew he hadn't understood them, hadn't heard this new bit of information. She would have to fill him in later, in Hebrew. He would need to know, anyway, now that the diagnosis was confirmed, if he wanted to continue helping her. With a confirmed positive Ebola case, and the presence of the World Health Organization, the makeshift infirmary would soon look like a space station. No one would be allowed in or out without full protective garb. You didn't take chances when working with a Level Four biohazard.

But she would make sure he got in. If they were to have any chance of fighting this new menace, which was apparently not new at all, they would need all the help they could get. Callie didn't care if that help was traditional or non-traditional, French of Egyptian, new as a baby or ancient as the hills. All she wanted was to find some way to help Eric and Doug. If Imhotep could play some part in that, she would make sure he was as much a part of this as any of them. When dealing with a disease like Ebola, especially a previously unknown strain of the lethal virus, they couldn't afford to overlook anything.

* * *

Mousa, erstwhile leader of the Sudanese contingent, wiped his hands on his pants, having just made use of the makeshift latrine. Shortly after their arrival, the workers had set it up near the jungle, as far away from the pyramid as possible. They had hurried with the job, taking no great care with the set up, but it filled its purpose, and no one was complaining, at least not now. 

Casting an anxious glance over his shoulder, Mousa peered into the forest, alive and crawling with the shifting shadows of late afternoon. Nothing appeared amiss, though, so he turned to go back to the new camp, which was being erected just outside the perimeter of the huge structure. Already, tents were springing up, and Mousa could hear as the camp's loud cook, Sabir, shouted a variety of orders and curses at the workers he supervised. Mousa grimaced. He felt little liking for the noisome cook. Sabir was loud, and blunt, and worse, he could see through the airs that Mousa affected. None of those traits endeared the pragmatic cook to the portly bureaucrat, although even he had to admit that Sabir's cooking was excellent, for camp food.

Offhandedly, he wondered when supper would be ready. Hopefully, not much longer. He didn't know how much longer he could manage to avoid putting in an appearance outside his tent. As soon as they had completed their trek through the jungle, he and his fellow bureaucrats had commandeered several of the workers and ordered them to set up tents for them. Now, they were busily engaged in their usual business—avoiding anything that took on the appearance of real work. At least Mousa and his three aides were. Hassan and Azziz had finally tired of the overt whining of those four and went off to find Bernstein, to see if they could help set up the new camp. Mousa grimaced. He was quite sure there was work aplenty. He looked up at the sky. The sun was far down towards the horizon already—only a few hours left until supper, at the most. He was sure he could avoid Bernstein and Hamid until then.

A sudden movement from the jungle caught the corner of his eye, dancing in and out of his peripheral vision before he could be sure he had seen anything at all. Spinning around, he gasped in shock. Approaching slowly, cautiously, were three men he recognized from his own superior's personal staff. They had their weapons out, and looked anxiously around them. Obviously, they had had the pleasure of meeting up with the natives. Mousa held back an oily smirk. Pasting on his best diplomat's smile, he walked forward, holding out his arms in welcome.

"Gentlemen—welcome to Ahm Shere! To what do we owe this honor?" The other men didn't come forward; they simply watched as he approached. His brow furrowing into a frown, Mousa kept going, until he was in the jungle itself, well into the underbrush, blocked from the view of the camp by the walls of the latrine. "What is the matter, gentlemen? Have you encountered some of the natives? Surely your weapons were adequate for self defense…"

"Self defense and more, Mousa," growled the leader of the three. With lightning quick reflexes, he jerked the weapon into position and fired a single round at the portly little man. The silencer on the weapon did its job well—only the smallest popping sound emanated from the gun's barrel. Wearing an almost comically surprised expression on his slack face, Mousa dropped to his knees, a thin trickle of blood running down his forehead from the hole now there. In near-slow motion, he toppled over, falling onto his face in the weeds. He twitched once, then went still.

At a wordless signal from their leader, the two other men each grabbed an arm and dragged Mousa off into the depths of the forest, dumping him unceremoniously into a gully far from the camp. There, the vicious little natives, who they had indeed encountered, would soon make short work of him.


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

_The ways have been arranged that I might know my own passage. I have loved the light and followed it easily and with joy. And I struggled to learn how to lie with the darkness where all the wrong things happened for the right reasons._

_The ways have been arranged. Through me the past flows like blood. Let the sun that rode on my back light my face. Let night fall with all the finality of death and I shall see a single star. Though the crescent moon pass through me like a slender knife, though it touch me, I shall live._

_I've dreamed the nightmare a hundred times, that old revulsion of bone and flesh, waking in a sweat, in a headlong rush toward the world, into the cool certainty of fires that burn in sudden stars, the heat in the body. That I am precludes my never having been._

_There are those who live in the boundaries of guilt and fear, the limits of imagination. They believe limitation is the world. You cannot change them. There is work of your own to do. You will never reach the end of your own becoming, the madness of creation, the joy of existence._

_Dance in the moment. Reach down and pull up song. Spin and chant and forget the sorrow that we are flesh on bone. We were gods then and we knew it. We are gods now dancing in whirling darkness, spitting flame like stars in the night._

_--Excerpts from "Becoming the Hawk Divine" and "Becoming the Child", __Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

The boy was young, barely eighteen, if one judged by looks alone. He was Egyptian, the dark handsomeness of his youthful features marred only by the jagged edge of fear that was constantly with him of late. He had signed on to the dig with his best friend, a boy only a little older than him, for the adventure of it all, as well as for the money. For all that it was an American dig, and Americans were to be tolerated at best, despised at worst, they paid on time, and in cash. And enough cash made anything tolerable.

The dig had gone well at first, even with the harsh living conditions of the desert camp. Seneb was not afraid of hard work, and removing the dirt and debris from the excavation, pitching in with camp chores, and even assisting the occasionally temperamental Sabir had been no hardship. But that had all changed when the American scientist had done something to make the ancient, cursed pyramid rise up from the ground, bringing with it this evil growth of jungle and the terrifying natives. Still, Seneb was an honorable youth, determined to stand fast against his fears and thus render them powerless against him. So, when the American, Bernstein, had asked for volunteers to stand guard, he had been among the first—and only—to volunteer.

And that singular act of bravery explained how, on a cloudless, clear morning, when the rising sun was just beginning to paint the eastern sky in shades of lavender, shell pink and rosy gold, he and his friend, Emir, happened to be climbing down from their perches in one of the tall trees around the perimeter of the pyramid. Near-exhausted from yesterday's move, and the sleepless night they had spent standing guard, the young men moved clumsily, paying too little attention to handholds and footholds on the slippery trunk of the huge tree. They moved with haste, wanting only to gain the ground—and from there, their bedrolls, and precious sleep—as soon as possible. Emir reached the ground first, looking up with a yawn to watch as the younger Seneb stretched out with his foot to balance on one of the smaller limbs of the tree before grabbing on to the sturdy branch just above it with his free hand. Emir, in his half-dozing state, saw the branch dip precariously when it took Seneb's weight, and frowned groggily. In the next second, he heard the groaning crack as the wood began to give and, finally wide awake, he opened his mouth to call out a shrill warning. It came too late, though, and as he watched in horror, his friend's foot lost its support, his hand slipped off the branch, and he lunged to the side, making a wild grab for his sure perch of a moment ago. He almost made it, teetering for a moment before finally losing his balance for good and plunging down through the remaining five meters of branches and foliage, to land with a sickening thud on the ground at Emir's feet.

Emir let out a yelp, dropping to his knees beside his friend. A quick glance assured him that Seneb was indeed alive—the youth's eyes were wide open, his breath was coming in quick pants, and a low, keening sound of pain worked its way past his tightly clamped lips. He did not move, however, and another hasty check revealed why—his right arm was bent underneath him, jutting out from the shoulder at a sickeningly impossible angle. It was obviously dislocated, and possibly broken.

Emir looked around in a panic, unsure of what to do. He knew he had to get help for Seneb, but he couldn't very well leave his injured friend alone here in the jungle, at the mercy of the very beasts they had just been guarding the others from. And he couldn't drag his friend with him, unless he wanted to risk doing him further injury. At a loss, he resorted to patting the injured young man lamely on the uninjured shoulder, muttering uselessly under his breath, praying to the gods to help them.

The gods answered in their own inimitable way.

* * *

Ardeth watched as the Creature—Imhotep, he reminded himself, in deference to Eliana's wishes—moved rapidly through the forest, heading back towards the pyramid. The priest had left Eric's side an hour before sunrise, spoken briefly to the young Egyptian doctor, and then headed out into the jungle, carrying with him one of the camp's heavy-duty lanterns. It had been almost comical to watch the amazement in the three-thousand-year-old eyes as the priest flipped the switch on the device, as he had no doubt watched Eliana and the others do, and the bright, piercing light of the flameless torch shot out, illuminating a wide swatch of pre-dawn jungle.

Ardeth knew that Imhotep would not take kindly to being observed in such a fashion, and the Med Jai had barely managed to hold back his reflexive laugh, finally able to do so only because of his fierce desire to remain unnoticed. His primary goal this morning was to observe, and to determine for himself whether or not the man, or the mummy—or maybe he should just think of him as "the priest"—was indeed as harmless as Eliana and he himself claimed to be. Only time, and careful observation, would prove or disprove that claim.

And so he had watched as, for the last hour, Imhotep had meticulously made his way through the thick undergrowth, shining the beam of the lantern into patches of vegetation, picking through the plants with his free hand, obviously searching for something, but just as obviously failing to find it. Finally, with a disgusted sigh, the priest had given up, looking up at the lightening sky and switching off the battery-powered light. For a second or two—no more—defeat was written clearly on his face—defeat and disappointment both. It was an expression that Imhotep would never have permitted himself to wear, had he known he was being watched, for both emotions bespoke weakness, and revealing weakness in the presence of an enemy was intolerable.

The priest had looked around one more time, more out of a sense of desperation than any real expectation of finding what he sought, and then had turned in the direction of the pyramid, making his way swiftly back through the trees, the Med Jai trailing behind.

At the edge of the tree line, just as the sun was breaking over the forest to the east, Imhotep found the two young men, almost tripping over them, in fact, as they cowered on the ground. The priest took in the scene with one sweeping glance, quickly assessing the situation and the young men—boys, really—that he had stumbled upon. The older one crouched over his injured friend, trying valiantly to look fierce and protective, but not succeeding in the least. The younger one was too hurt and afraid to do anything but lay on the ground, looking utterly miserable.

Crouching down so he was at eye level with the older youth, Imhotep looked into the frightened brown eyes. "What happened here?" he asked in Hebrew, not really expecting to be understood, but pleasantly surprised when he saw the flare of knowledge in the boy's eyes. Pointing upward, the youth quickly explained, his expressive gestures adding detail to the sparsely worded Hebrew explanation. Imhotep nodded, quickly grasping that the boy's injuries were the result of a fall, not an attack by the natives or some other incident.

Working quickly, he examined the youth, running his hands expertly over his limbs to check for fractures, gently palpating his abdomen to feel for any hardness, distension or other sign of internal bleeding and finally, looking into the frightened eyes to determine if they reacted equally to the light. He knew that a serious head injury could sometimes be diagnosed in such a manner, but he saw no indication of it in the young man's eyes. The only thing that shone from them was pain and fear. It appeared that the only injury the boy had sustained was the obvious one—the clearly dislocated shoulder. Thankfully, it was an injury that was easily—if painfully—repaired.

Looking up into the eyes of the older boy once again, Imhotep spoke slowly and clearly, making sure the youth understood him. "His shoulder has come out of its joint. I can replace it, but I will need your help. You must hold him, while I pull the shoulder into place. Can you do this?" He searched the youth's eyes, looking for understanding, and finding it there. Slowly, the young man nodded. "Good," Imhotep gave him a brief smile, as he gently moved the injured youth so that he was no longer lying on his arm. Once on his back, the grossly misaligned limb was even more apparent, and Imhotep held back a wince. This was never a pleasant task—it always required as much brute strength as mechanical dexterity—and apart from that, he didn't like the thought of causing the boy any more pain.

A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that dawn was stealing over the camp, and the sounds of men rising and beginning to stir drifted to his ears. He could so easily leave them—simply go and find one of the hordes of doctors or medical personnel that roamed the site. For a brief second, he contemplated telling them he had changed his mind and doing just that. But another look into the boy's pain-filled eyes convinced him to stay. Unsavory though it was, replacing a slipped shoulder was easy enough to do, and would quickly alleviate the youth's suffering.

His voice was low and gentle as he talked to the boy. "Can you understand me? What is your name?"

After a moment, the young man answered him. "Seneb."

Imhotep nodded, pleased that the youth had managed that much. Gently, he pulled him into a sitting position, keeping up a smooth flow of conversation as he did so. "Seneb, you must have heard me when I told your friend what was wrong." Just in case, he repeated himself anyway. "Your shoulder has come out of place. It is an easy matter to fix, and I can do so, but you must hold still and not pull away when you feel me moving the bone back into alignment. Your friend will assist me. Once the bone is back in its proper position, the pain will be much less. Do you want me to do this?"

The boy nodded, a look of grim determination settling on his face. Imhotep smiled at him, impressed with the young man's fortitude. "It will be painful while I am moving the bone, and you will feel much pressure, but do not move. Do you understand me?" Again, the boy nodded.

Imhotep moved the other boy into position on his friend's left side, showing him where to hold and cautioning him once again to not let go, once he began moving the limb. He took up his own position on the boy's injured side, carefully lifting the dislocated arm and feeling it once more to determine if the shoulder injury was the only problem. Satisfied that it was, he gently moved the arm, steeling himself against the boy's moan of pain. "Close your eyes, grit your teeth, scream if you must," he warned him, "but do _not_ move."

His obsidian dark eyes lifted, meeting the older youth's. He saw the readiness there. With a barely perceptible nod, he indicated that he was about to begin. The young man braced himself and hung on for dear life. With a mighty tug, and a skillful twist and push, Imhotep maneuvered the bone into position, closing his ears to the boy's shout of pain. Difficult though the maneuver was, it was over in seconds, the ball joint of the shoulder slipping back into its socket like a well-oiled key into a lock. Moving it back and forth slightly, satisfied that it was indeed in place, Imhotep put a hand on the youth's other arm. Slowly, the boy's tightly clenched jaw relaxed, and his eyes opened the barest fraction.

"It is over?" he said, in a weak voice.

Imhotep nodded, favoring him with another smile. "It is. You did well. The bone is back in place, and I could detect no other injuries. The gods were smiling on you this day, for that to be the case."

"Indeed they were," said his older friend, looking at the priest with eyes that shone gratitude. "My name is Emir, and I am honored to know you. Seneb and I are in your debt. Thank you."

For just a second, Imhotep was taken aback at the genuine outpouring of gratitude. It had been eons since someone had looked at him with some emotion other than fear, horror or revulsion, and eons more since he had had the satisfaction of putting his healing skills to use. He had forgotten the quiet pleasure of doing so. Unbidden, another smile curved his lips. "It is I who am honored. I am happy to have helped you, Seneb."

Standing, he leaned down to help the young man to his feet, offering him support and talking to him quietly while he waited for Emir to position himself on the other side, giving Seneb another arm on which to lean. Slowly, the three made their way towards the pyramid. Seneb would need to see the other doctors anyway, to obtain a sling for his sore and tender arm, and to be carefully reexamined to ensure that Imhotep hadn't missed something. The priest was quite sure that he hadn't, but it wouldn't hurt to be doubly sure. He smiled to himself again as they crossed the encampment that now surrounded the gleaming golden monolith. The boy would be fine.

After they had moved out of view, Ardeth Bay shoved his way through the underbrush that had successfully hidden him from their sight. The expression on his face was equal parts amazement, doubt and unwilling admiration. What he had just witnessed was an act of true compassion, freely given and masterfully accomplished. He knew from the Med Jai lore that Imhotep had been a skillful and well-trained healer as well as the highest-ranking priest in all of Egypt; but to know something and to witness it firsthand were two vastly different things.

He knew that the priest could have left the two young men to fend for themselves, or could just as easily have gone to get someone else to do the work. The Creature that he thought he knew, in fact, would have done so. The murderous beast that had lived on for ages in Med Jai legend would have done so as well, and would also have enjoyed seeing the stark pain in the boy's eyes—might even have inflicted some additional suffering on his own, for good measure.

But the man that had helped the boy walk out of there just now, after already having helped him so much, was neither of those things, and that rattled Ardeth's preconceptions and set him to wondering even more. He was on shaky ground, dangerously close to setting aside age-old beliefs and a rigid adherence to sacredly held dogma, and the feeling of uncertainty that accompanied that fact came as close to frightening him as anything could.

Shaking his head in confusion, he slowly followed the path that the others had taken before him.

* * *

"Professor Bernstein, it is truly a pleasure to meet you at last!" The speaker, a tall, handsome Sudanese man, stood up and smiled broadly as the archaeologist made his way to the table where the three newcomers were seated. "Please excuse our forwardness in making ourselves comfortable here. We have only just arrived, and the trek through the jungle was quite…strenuous." It was a lie, of course. The three had been there since last evening, first disposing of Mousa and then scouting out the camp, developing a feel for where everything was, _who_ everyone was. They had spent the night on the fringe of the jungle, and were not even bothered by the natives—it was almost as if the little Pygmies could sense the presence of a more malevolent evil than theirs, and gave the three a wide berth.

Last night, they had scouted. Today was the infiltration.

Bernstein frowned, not at all pleased that his site was becoming the preferred destination in all of Sudan. How many more people would simply stumble out of the jungle, join up with their party, and set up camp at the pyramid? The pyramid, which he was beginning to think of as the Ebola Hilton. This was getting ridiculous.

"I'm sorry you had a difficult time reaching us, gentlemen," he said, a frown crossing his face. "But this was not the most opportune time to come here, at any rate. Surely Mousa has been in touch with your agency, informing them of what has happened here?"

The man nodded. "He has. That is, in fact, why we are here." He took great pains to look discomfited by having to speak badly of a colleague. "Allow me to introduce myself, please. I am Tariq Bashir. I am Bursuq Mousa's supervisor. I am sorry to say that he has been reassigned and will no longer be working as your contact with the Sudanese government." He shifted his feet and dropped his eyes, still attempting to portray uncomfortable reluctance. "My superiors felt that, given the circumstances, it would be better all around if I replaced Bursuq as your primary contact."

Clearing his throat, he added, by way of explanation, "Unfortunately, Bursuq has not had much experience in dealing with situations of such magnitude and…sensitivity."

Bernstein was completely unconcerned with the ins and outs of Sudanese political games, except for how they happened to affect _him_, and he shrugged. "Well, who you choose to have represent Sudan is your business, certainly. But you have to realize how difficult it is here already, without people coming and going at all times." He paused, a question occurring to him. "How did Mousa get clearance to leave here, anyway? I was under the impression we were under strict quarantine—no one allowed to either come _or_ go…"

"Believe me, Professor," said Bashir, giving him an oily politician's smile. "Bursuq is in no danger of contaminating everyone. He left last night, under orders from my office, and will be going to a special quarantine unit at our government facility in Khartoum." Again, he paused, this time giving a small sigh of regret. "It was unfortunate he had to leave without even extending his thanks for your hospitality. He asked me to relay his apologies for that grievous omission."

Bernstein shook his head. "No apologies needed. I hope that he makes it back safely. How did he go back, anyway? No one heard a chopper come in…"

"He was escorted out through the jungle itself by a special military unit. A helicopter waited on the edge of the jungle. He was quite safe, I assure you." _Oh, yes, Mousa was _quite_ safe. He had no worries at all, anymore._

"Good." Bernstein said, stepping forward and offering Bashir his hand. "Well, welcome to the site. Make yourselves at home." He looked over the table, noting the half-consumed food. "I see you've already made the acquaintance of Sabir, our cook. That should take care of your food. As for lodging—I assume you will be taking over Mousa's accommodations?"

Bashir shook Bernstein's hand, a small smile on his face. "Do not trouble yourself on our behalf. Yes, we will simply take whatever lodging was assigned to Bursuq." Bernstein nodded, and turned to walk away. As he went to leave, Bashir's voice called out, stopping him.

"Oh, and Professor—one last thing." Bernstein turned back, one eyebrow raised in question, waiting for the Sudanese to continue. "Bursuq was much more laissez-faire than I, or my assistants here. You will find that we are much more interested in the fascinating work that you do here at the site. It is not everyday that one is privileged to be a part of something of this magnitude. I hope you will not mind if we observe the goings-on more closely than my predecessor did…"

Bernstein shrugged again. He didn't really care much one way or the other what they did, as long as they stayed out of his way and didn't try to manage his dig for him. "Suit yourself, gentlemen," he said. "But be warned—this site has already proven quite dangerous. Don't go into the barricaded areas, don't go _anywhere_ unescorted, and please, please, don't touch the artifacts. Ahm Shere is a priceless discovery, as I'm sure you know." He paused, to give his next words more emphasis. "It needs to be safeguarded—even from those who mean well."

Bashir nodded. "Understood, Professor. I'm sure you will find nothing objectionable or bothersome about our behavior. We will be as unobtrusive as possible."

With an answering nod, Bernstein turned away. He didn't see the malevolent smile that flickered over Bashir's dark features, or the words that he murmured under his breath. But Bahir's cronies did, and they smiled in return. "Within a few days, Professor, you will not be bothered by much of _anything_…"

* * *

"Imhotep?" Her voice trailed down the corridor, the thick stone walls giving it a ghostly echo. "Is that you?" Of course, she knew it was, had known from the moment she stepped out of the small antechamber and seen his tall, unmistakable form emerging from the hallway to the makeshift infirmary, but the question served its purpose, and he stopped, waiting for her to catch up with him. He looked tired this morning, she thought, as she got closer—tired and a bit sad. His eyes were shadowed and his face had a pale, haggard look in spite of his dark coloring. But despite his obvious fatigue, the bone-deep stubbornness was still solidly in place, and he showed no sign of affection—or interest, even—as she walked up to him.

Saying nothing, he simply watched her impassively, as if waiting for her to explain why she had called out to him in the first place. Uncomfortable under his unblinking stare, she shifted from foot to foot, finally resorting to the only thing that came to mind. "How are you?" It was trite and overused, and it made her wince inwardly to have resorted to such a cliché, but at least it coaxed a response from him.

"It has been a long night." Well, that was a little more forthcoming, at least, than the standard "I'm fine, and you?" It wasn't much in the way of conversation, but it was better than nothing.

"You look tired," she offered, giving him a sympathetic smile. "How is Eric?"

"Not well. I have just come from his bedside. The disease continues to progress, and nothing has been able to stop it. I thought perhaps…" He shook his head, stopping himself before he said more, unwilling to give her hope, in the event that there was none. "Never mind. It is not important."

Before she could stop herself, she had reached out and placed her hand on his arm, refusing to take it away, even when she felt his flinch. "You thought what, Imhotep?" Reading between his words, she pieced it together herself. "Is there something you can do for Eric? Do you know something that will help him?"

He shook his head. "I should never have mentioned it." With a sigh, he stepped away, and her hand fell from his arm. "What I had begun to say was that I had hoped to fashion a tonic—an extract from a flowering plant—that might have given him some time. It could have bought him a day, maybe two, to gather his strength and fight the disease." As he spoke, he distractedly rubbed at his arm where she had touched him, as though he could still feel the imprint of her hand against his skin. "I have not been able to find the plant, so it is irrelevant. The god has overestimated my skill. There is nothing I can do for Eric. If he survives this plague, it will be because of the skill of the modern physicians and his own inner fortitude. I have done nothing."

Her heart went out to him. She would have given all she possessed to be able to comfort him in some way, however small. As it was, all she could offer, all he would accept from her, was a meaningless platitude. "You have done all you could. No one could expect more…" It was the wrong thing to say.

He whirled towards her, tired fury flashing in his eyes. "_I_ expect more!" The words came out in a low growl, underscored by his fatigue and frustration. "Amun-Re expects more! I _must_ help him—anything less is unacceptable."

She took a step back, looking up into his eyes, wanting to help, but unable to do so. Quietly, she asked, "What if there is nothing to be done, Imhotep? What will happen then?"

He looked at her, his eyes tortured. "I do not know. I cannot even think of it." He turned away, facing down the corridor, towards the bright light that shone from the infirmary. "Apart from what this means for me—freedom from the curse, freedom to finally go on—it is unacceptable for Eric to succumb to this plague. He is too young; he has too much to live for. It is not right. I cannot stand by and watch as this disease eats away at him." His shoulders sagged, his voice dropped to a ragged whisper. "But I do not know what else I can do…"

Eliana risked rejection again, moving to stand close behind him, putting her palm against the jutting angle of his shoulder blade, running it lightly over his back in an effort to soothe, to comfort. She felt him tense, but he did not pull away. Emboldened, she moved closer, until she could feel the heat from his body, smell the spicy musk of his skin. Her voice was a low murmur, a balm for his weary soul. "You will do what you can, and it will be enough.

"What if it is not enough, Eliana? I promise you, I will move heaven and earth itself to save him, to ease his suffering, but what if it is not enough?"

She put her arms around him, gave him a brief hug, and after an infinitesimal hesitation, a barely perceptible stiffening, she felt him relax. "It will be enough. You will do what you can, and it will be enough." Pulling away, she moved to face him, and although he resolutely kept his face turned away from her, she lifted a hand to caress the strong line of his jaw, a tiny smile curving her lips, but not quite erasing the sadness in her eyes. "You are a good man, Imhotep. Eric is fortunate to have you here. We all are. I wish…"

The silence stretched onwards after her voice had trailed off, and she began to wonder if he had even heard her. Finally, though, he spoke, fatigue and sadness adding a husky gruffness to the deep baritone timbre of his voice. "What do you wish for, Eliana?" He slowly turned to face her, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, his golden brown eyes searching hers. She was stunned for a moment, unable to keep pace with his mercurial shifts in temperament. One moment he was cold as death, the next moment blazing with the heat of a newborn star. She fumbled for what she had been about to say.

"I wish…" She gulped. "I wish that the others could see you as I do. I wish that my father and Ardeth…" The wrong words, once again. The light in his eyes died immediately, replaced with a frosty coldness.

"Ah, yes…the Med Jai." It didn't take much effort at all for him to dredge up the image of her in the Med Jai's arms. He could still feel the ache inside that that particular vision had caused him. The reflexive pain added a cutting sharpness to his words. "And your father." His next words were deliberate, meant to hurt. "What they—or you—think of me means nothing, Eliana. Nothing. I do not care. The time for caring is long past, dead and gone. At some point, perhaps, even you will realize that."

She stepped away, the color draining from her face, her eyes welling with tears that she only just managed to keep from spilling out. She felt like he had slapped her, knocked the wind out of her lungs…twisted a knife in her heart. Not trusting herself to speak, she bowed her head and turned away, holding herself unnaturally still as she fought against the tears. Finally, she trusted her voice enough to whisper an apology. "I'm sorry, Imhotep." Swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand before she turned towards him again, she opened her mouth to add more, but then changed her mind, shaking her head and dropping her eyes from his. In another second she was gone, and he watched as she walked away.

He was instantly bereft, a cold aloneness settling into the pit of his stomach, curling around his heart. Too late, he regretted every miserable word he had spoken. The temptation to call her back, to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, was powerful, but he fought it off. His pride, his defensiveness—his fear—all kept him from doing so. And so once again, he was alone, watching her retreating form as she fled from him. But this time the fault was his, not hers.

He suddenly, desperately, wanted some miracle to fall at his feet so he could complete the accursed task set before him and fade into merciful oblivion. How much longer could he stand this, when her every look, her every touch caused him an almost physical pain? Unable to answer himself, he turned away, not able to watch her any longer. Even in this new form, she was as beautiful as ever—and on some level, a part of him recognized that the new beauty was as much a loveliness of the spirit as of the body—but it hurt to look at her. Every glance reminded him of what he had lost, of what he could never have, of what he would not let himself have.

When he looked again, the room was empty. She was nowhere in sight. Her absence didn't help at all, of course, for although he could see her no more, the pain had never really been in his eyes to begin with. Now, as always, it had been buried deep within the furthest reaches of his heart.

* * *

"It is often said among the Med Jai tribes that what one cannot do, many may well accomplish." Ardeth Bay's quiet voice stretched across the early morning silence, the words themselves as much a verbal peace treaty as an offer to help. Imhotep straightened away from the tree he was leaning against, his expression settling into a mask of haughty disdain as he faced the Med Jai, the one person in the world that he least wanted to see.

"It is said among the Egyptians that only a fool feasts at a table laid by his enemies. I cannot imagine that accepting help from one is any wiser." He moved to walk away, but stopped in his tracks when Bay had the temerity to laugh at him.

"It seems, then," Ardeth offered, not bothering to hide his amusement, "that both the Med Jai and the Egyptian have a problem, in this instance." He took a step closer, watchful eyes scanning the priest's face, looking past the haughty expression—the raised eyebrow, the scornful sneer. Anyone—except perhaps the most casual observer—could have seen through that facade and noticed the weariness etched on the bronze features. To a Med Jai, who from an early age was trained to be perceptive, to read the faces and gestures of those they guarded—or guarded against—the level of fatigue he saw reflected in the priest's countenance was astonishing. "It seems that we must both set aside our distrust, at least for the moment. It is in both of our interests for you to accomplish what you say you must. It is perhaps time for you to acknowledge that you cannot do this alone, and to accept help, even if that help comes from your sworn enemy."

He saw the stubborn resistance begin to creep into the priest's expression, and gave a sighing shrug. "I do not know what you searched for in the forest yesterday, but I know that you were not successful in finding it. And I know that you spent the entire night watching over Eric before going out into the jungle _again_. If you are mortal, as you say, you must accept the limits that mortality imposes. A man must sleep, Imhotep…"

"I will rest when I have done what I must." Angrily, the priest shoved past the Med Jai, only to be detained by a hand on the arm. A witheringly pointed gaze at the restraining hand, which would have caused most men to shrink away in fear, only served to bring another amused look into the Med Jai's dark eyes.

"We can agree, then, that neither of us trusts the other, priest." Ardeth dropped his hand from Imhotep's arm. "But nonetheless, I believe that you require assistance. As does Eric. As will Doug, if more time is allowed to pass." At the mention of the two young men, the arrogance on Imhotep's features faded slightly. Ardeth saw it, and pressed his point. "You do not need to trust me to accept my help. And I do not need to trust you, to offer it. In fact, what better way to watch you, and speed you on your way, than to help you accomplish your goal?"

Imhotep glanced away, the expression on his face clearly that of a man who sees the logic in another's argument, but would rather chew off his own arm than acknowledge it. Finally, his own weariness forced him to capitulate. "Do as you wish, Med Jai. Help, or not, as you will."

Ardeth gave a quick nod. "Good." He shot the priest a questioning look. "You will be going out into the forest again, then?" Imhotep nodded, and Ardeth cursed the priest's habitual terseness. "It would be helpful to know what we search for, priest."

Imhotep's mouth twitched into a parody of a smile. "We are looking for a miracle, Med Jai."

* * *

"So he thinks that some kind of _plant_ is gonna stop this guy from turning into a puddle of jelly?" Connelly dug around inside the nearly empty package and fished out the last M&M, a green one, and popped it into his mouth. He crumpled up the empty package and lifted his arm, about to make a shot at the cardboard box that served as the garbage container. All around it, scattered on the ground, lay discarded wads of paper and miscellaneous debris, remnants of other, failed attempts to hit the target.

Callie reached across the table and plucked the garbage out of his hand and, leaning back, placed it carefully within the container.

"Hey!" Connelly gave her an indignant, aggrieved look.

"You would have missed anyway," she scoffed, turning a coolly superior look on him. "And I won't even bother to answer your question. How can you possibly make a joke about something like this? Eric is sick, possibly dying, from a terrible, awful disease, and you sit here eating candy and making crude, tasteless jokes about it? What kind of…"

He leaned over, taking her hand in his, cutting off the stream of words with a look that contained no humor at all—just a serious, solemn sadness.

"I'm sorry," he said, briefly running his hand through his perpetually rumpled hair and looking up at the tarp overhead. His other hand maintained its hold on hers, his thumb rubbing lightly back and forth over her olive-toned skin. "It's just that…" He sighed, looking into her eyes, trying to make her understand. Why it was suddenly so important that she understand, and not think that he was just some ignorant American clod, he hadn't a clue. But it _was_ important, and he kept his eyes locked on hers, staring into their mesmerizing darkness. His other hand reached across the table, so that now both of hers were trapped within his grip. "It's just that I've seen a lot, doing what I do, and sometimes joking about it is the only way to stay sane, you know?"

Callie cleared her throat, eyes darting away from his, looking anywhere but into the piercing blue-green gaze that stared at her from across the table. Delicately extricating her hands from his, she scooted back on her chair, increasing the distance between them until she could manage to breathe again. It didn't seem to matter much, though. There was still not enough air or space in the open-sided tent, and her hands still tingled from where he had touched them.

Purposely making her voice coolly professional, hoping he didn't hear the slight quaver, Callie scolded him. "What I _know_ is that sometimes a joke is completely inappropriate for _whatever_ reason. I can understand the psychology behind your explanation, I suppose, and even agree with it, to some extent, but really…"

He reached across the table again, his long arm easily spanning the increased distance between them, and laid a finger over her lips, once more stopping the flood of words. "Shhh," he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice, glinting from his eyes. "Take a breath. I get the message. Point taken. I'm sorry, okay?" He knew he should take his finger from her lips, but some inner demon made him keep it there, dared him to rub it lightly over the fullness of her lower lip. "You always talk so much?"

She gasped, completely baffled by his presumptuous familiarity with her, aghast at her own response to it. But no sooner had she opened her mouth to rebuke him than she realized it was a mistake, for the movement served to drag her lips over his fingers yet again, in what she was fast learning was an incredibly erotic sensation. _Erotic?_ She was actually thinking of such a word, in relation to this man? Horrified at herself, she jumped up, almost sputtering with indignant frustration. "Are you always so…so…boorish?"

"Yep, mostly. Call it a character flaw." He leaned back in his chair, and she hated the way she noticed how the movement stretched the fabric of his shirt over the broad angles and planes of his chest, hated how her eyes roamed over the well-muscled flesh revealed by the open collar. He grinned at her, seeming almost to read her mind. That infuriated her even more.

"Obviously, you have character flaws aplenty," she threw at him, attempting to drag her eyes away from the tempting display of his…attributes. She gave him a withering glare. "You're clumsy, you're rude, your humor is incredibly tasteless, you litter," she said, pointing towards the trash container, "and you have absolutely no idea about respecting other people's personal space…"

"Never mind," he interrupted casually, eyes roaming over her, enjoying the look of her flushed face, the sparks flying from her incredibly gorgeous eyes, the fact that she was almost panting in anger, which made her chest rise and fall rapidly…_Whoa, there, Connelly!_ He gave himself a mental shake. _What are you doing? A little flirting is one thing, but get a grip, man!_ The idea of getting a grip, and what exactly, he would _like_ to grip, brought to mind other thoughts, taking him further down that same dangerous path, and he cut himself short, irritated at his own inability to control his thoughts. For all that he liked to play the buffoon, found it useful at times, he was really very self-disciplined, and the fact that this Egyptian doctor rattled him so much that he couldn't keep his mind focused on his mission bothered him quite a bit. "You've made yourself very clear. I get the picture—okay, princess?"

She stopped in the middle of a breath. "_What_ did you call me?"

"Huh?" He was clearly baffled at her abrupt change of topic. "I dunno…princess, I guess. Why?"

She shook her head, fighting off the strange feeling that had come over her when he'd used that term. "Nothing. Never mind…I just…"

From no more than two meters away came the sound of a throat being loudly and rather uncomfortably cleared, and the two of them looked over to see Ardeth Bay and Imhotep standing just inside the shadow of the tarp. Bay was obviously ill at ease over having interrupted them—he had been the one to make their presence known. Imhotep wore his usual enigmatic expression—nothing ever seemed to faze him. But Callie could swear that she saw a look almost like amusement flicker through the Egyptian's dark eyes before he looked away from her.

* * *

"Did you have any luck?" Choosing to ignore the entire awkward situation, Callie turned her back on Connelly and focused instead on the unsmiling face of the tall Egyptian. He shook his head, the frown on his face deepening.

"No. There is no trace of it to be found." The lines of fatigue on his face were etched even more deeply than when she had seen him last, and Callie suddenly found herself worrying about him. His skin was pale underneath the natural bronze color; his eyes, especially, had the look of bone deep weariness.

"You tried. That's all you could do…" she began, only to be cut off by a dark, brooding look.

"Effort means little, when failure is the ultimate result." Dark brows lowered over fierce brown eyes. Any attempt to argue _that_ point would be futile. She chose to ignore it.

"Perhaps it's just that it doesn't grow _here_?" she ventured, lifting her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "After all, this place can hardly be called a 'natural environment'."

He nodded tiredly. "That may be so. But the result is the same, either way."

Connelly indicated the empty chairs around the table with a sweep of his hand. "Why don't you two sit down for a while? Get something to eat, something to drink. You both look like you could use something." He ran an assessing glance over the two, stopping to look carefully at Imhotep. "_You_ look half dead…"

The priest's head shot up at the younger man's words, anger and something else flaring in the depths of his eyes. _Half dead?_ He almost laughed at the irony of the man's words. This situation was ludicrous as it was—that he had now been invited to sit down and share a meal with someone who had just one lifetime ago been his mortal enemy, another who had plagued him in one incarnation after another over the millennia, and another still who was of the hated Med Jai—it was well past strange, moving rapidly into the realm of the truly bizarre. He shook his head, looking down at the still seated Connelly with an icy cold arrogance, not even bothering to answer him. Instead, his glance flicked back to the woman, and the coldness in his eyes thawed slightly. "I would like to see Eric. Will that be possible?"

She nodded, although her eyes were worried. "I think so. Robillard has tightened the quarantine, but I think I can get you in to see Eric." For a second, she was silent, then gave the priest a searching look. "Do you mind if I ask you something?" His raised eyebrow and questioning look indicated his assent, although he said nothing.

"How do you know so much about this disease?" It was the question he had feared, not knowing how to answer it without creating even more questions. "You said you were trained somehow in alternative medicine, but how would you know so much about Ebola, or about this plant…?"

He met her eyes, and settled on the truth, or at least portion of it. "My training as a healer was nothing like the training you have had to become a doctor. My knowledge is based on ancient lore and remedies that have existed for thousands of years. The disease that eats away at Eric is an ancient one, one that has plagued mankind for millennia…"

She interrupted him. "Ebola only made an appearance thirty or forty years ago. Even though the lab results say that the virus in Eric's blood is some sort of distant ancestor to the strains of Ebola and Marburg we know about now, how ancient, really, can it be?"

He smiled, and managed to look almost wistful. "You have no idea." Tiredly, he turned to face the bright daylight just beyond the shade of the tarp, staring into it with unseeing eyes. His mind conjured up images from ancient times, of places and people long crumbled to dust. Even during his natural lifetime, the disease was an echo of history, of times long past. "This disease is _truly_ ancient. It has existed for at least five thousand years, in one form or another." A pause, as he pondered what else to say. "According to ancient texts, it was once thought to have disappeared; apparently, that was not the case."

"However could you know that?" Callie asked, eyebrows arching in disbelief. "I've never read anything of the sort…"

It was Imhotep's turn to interrupt her. "I imagine you and I have not studied from the same texts, Doctor." He turned to face her. "Regardless, I am familiar with the disease, and can tell you a little—very little—of its history. Do you wish me to do so?"

She nodded and sat down. "Please."

Connelly leaned back in his chair, making no bones about the fact that he was listening in on every detail. He appeared relaxed and at ease, but his eyes gave lie to his seeming nonchalance, focusing like lasers on the tall Egyptian. Ardeth, too, although he did not sit down, leaned back against a nearby table, folding his arms across his chest, his posture clearly indicating his intent to pay heed to this conversation. Imhotep spared neither of them a glance, all his attention focused on Callie.

"Five thousand years ago, shortly before the birth of the first pharaohs—before the great Egyptian Empire had arisen from the green valley of the Nile—a mysterious ailment sprang up in the desert to the south of what became the Old Kingdom. Little is known about it, save that it was a hideous, horrible disease, a true plague upon the earth." He paused, considering his words, trying to paint as accurate a portrait as possible of the nature of the illness. "It started much like any illness—pain, fever, nausea—but within mere days progressed to the point where the stricken person began to almost liquefy from the inside out.

"The eyes turned red, spots of blood appeared under the skin, and blood soon poured from every orifice of the body. Eventually, the mind shut down and the victim fell unconscious. Once stricken by the plague—the Red Death, it was called—the victim had no hope whatsoever, save for as quick death as the disease would grant. There was no cure, no remedy, nothing at all that could be done. No one could withstand it; entire cities crumbled from its onslaught."

He looked away again, his agile brain paging effortlessly through the memories of the ancient texts of history and lore he had studied in his early days of training. "It ravaged cities, destroyed entire populations, save for isolated groups of people here and there, who somehow managed to survive. No one knows how or why they were spared. Perhaps they were favored by the gods; perhaps they were simply fortunate. For whatever reason, they lived.

"The region was decimated, though—what had been a populous area had been reduced by nearly three-fourths in the space of several years as the disease swept northwards. Once it reached the northernmost cities, where the Nile empties into the sea, and completed its work there, it simply died out and disappeared. Again, no one knows how, or why—it simply vanished."

He fell silent, his mind working furiously to try to come up with a way to explain the rest. In the space of that silence, a small voice spoke up from behind them all. "So this disease had its origins in the same time period as the Scorpion King legends, then? When Ahm Shere first came into being?" As one, they turned towards the source of that subdued observation.

Eliana stood quietly, hands at her sides, watching the little group. Hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she looked cool despite the midday heat and humidity—the picture of calmness and poise. It was a deceptive tranquility, though, for while she was outwardly serene, inside she was a shambles. Just seeing him made her heart ache—although she was vaguely aware of the others in the tent, her eyes were locked on the unsmiling face of the handsome priest. And the tale he had just told…the pieces fell into place in her mind effortlessly, perfectly, and she berated herself for not realizing it sooner. The pyramid, the statue, the disease, the legend—it had been staring them in the face all along. Quietly, she finished her thought. "And what became of the tattered remains of the population, after the disease had run its course?"

Imhotep watched her intently, paging back through the history and legends in his mind. Within seconds, the answer came to him, and a small flame ignited in the depths of his eyes, catching hold and beginning to blaze. "They were lost; scattered to the winds—their cities had collapsed, their governments and economies had perished along with their husbands and wives, sons and daughters. There was virtually nothing left, until…" A small smile began to form on his lips.

"Until?" Eliana prodded, anticipating the answer, waiting for him to say the words confirming her suspicion.

"Until a mighty warrior rose up from the south and defeated the ragged legions to the north, sweeping through the desolation that remained and gathering up the remnants into what would become Egypt." He paused, letting this revelation sink in. Quietly, he put the remaining piece of the puzzle into place. "Egypt's first dynasty; Egypt's first pharaoh—Skorpios the First—the Scorpion King."

_"'With this last, worst plague I deliver over a bleeding Egypt to my servant.'"_ Shaking her head in disbelief, Eliana's soft voice quoted the words her father had read from the archway leading down to the grotto in the pyramid. "I cannot believe it. Anubis' words to the Scorpion King. The answer to the puzzle of the plague was there all along, Imhotep. All along. I had forgotten all about that inscription…"

With an audible thump, Connelly's chair tipped forward and hit the ground, once again resting on all four legs. The strapping American leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, his piercing blue eyes fastened relentlessly on Eliana. "So you're telling us that this Ebola thing is a little gift from some ancient Egyptian god to his human buddy? Poor guy needed a little help taking over the world, so his favorite deity sort of stepped in to lend a hand?" He snorted. "Been reading a few too many mythology books lately?"

Imhotep skewered him with a look. "The logic is infallible; the conclusion fits seamlessly within the framework of history and legend. The illness destroying Eric is ancient, a legacy from times long past—freed from its imprisonment in the bowels of Ahm Shere and allowed to ravage the earth once more." His gaze swept over the American in derision, taking him in from head to toe and clearly finding him lacking. He looked away, unimpressed. "Perhaps your limited…knowledge…does not permit you to reach that conclusion, but it is a sound one, nevertheless."

Hearing Connelly's indignant huff, he favored the American with another scathing glance, then added, "I have often found that when one has no knowledge of what is being discussed, it is wise to remain silent. Only a fool mocks that which he does not know."

Connelly's jaw dropped open, then snapped shut. He shoved his chair back from the table and stood up, brows lowering into a scowl. "Now just a second…" But Imhotep had already turned away, dismissing him without a second glance. He once again turned towards Callie.

"To complete the story, the plague disappeared for centuries—a thousand years, perhaps more— before finally surfacing again. It was still as virulent when it struck, still as fatal, but it was nothing like it had been. It was almost as though it had changed somehow, been weakened in some way. It still killed, but the killing was more contained, less widespread. It affected fewer people, and of those it did, some—a rare few—sometimes managed to survive. It was during those days that the curative powers of the plant were discovered…"

"But wait," Callie stopped him. "So you're saying that the virus mutated somehow? Changed in some way that made it less effective in destroying huge segments of the population?" At his affirmative nod, she continued musing aloud, staring off into space as her thoughts formed. "So if it killed off all those people before, leaving behind only those who somehow managed to survive it—possibly some sort of natural immunity—and then went dormant…" She lifted her eyes to meet his. "Only those that were immune would have survived, and they would have most likely passed that immunity on to their children." She stood, beginning to pace back and forth, as the train of thought began to form and grow, rapidly gathering momentum as it took shape.

"So the virus would have been left with nothing on which to feed—no hosts—unless it could mutate somehow, giving it a foothold once more." She glanced around at the group, looking at them but not really seeing them. All her energy was focused on piecing together the mystery of how the disease had managed to evolve. "But at the same time that it was changing—evolving—the human population was going through its own changes. The virus mutated, allowing it the opportunity to infiltrate the human population once more; without the need for natural selection to ensure transmission of the natural immunity—because the disease was dormant—the humans would have gradually lost some of their inbred resistance to it in its original form. But still—even a couple of millennia aren't long, in terms of human evolution—large numbers of the population would have remained immune, at least in that part of the world."

She paused, thinking again. "The thing is, who knows how many mutations have come and gone, over all those centuries? The filoviruses of today would be nothing like the ones that existed even a thousand years ago. Similar, yes—the same, no. What some people could fight off back then, we might have no hope against, today."

Imhotep nodded, managing to follow her reasoning, even with some of the unfamiliar terms she had used. "You said that the doctors thought the disease in Eric was an ancient one—some sort of ancestor to the diseases like it that exist today. Is that correct?"

"Yes." She frowned, puzzling over something, not sure of what it was that bothered her. "But…but no one is immune to Ebola, at least not that we've found. Not any of the known strains, not Marburg—when they appear, they kill. They're hard to get—none of them are airborne, like this one appears to be—but they're deadly."

Connelly let out a sigh. He had followed the conversation all the way up to this point, but now he was lost. "What, exactly, does this mean, Doc? You've discovered Ebola's great grandfather? So what? They're deadly, all of them—Sudan, Zaire, Reston, even Marburg—what's it matter? You get one; you're dead. That's it."

She gave him a frustrated look, impatient with his lack of understanding. "No, that's not it, Mr. Connelly. The modern forms of the filoviruses are deadly, yes—no natural immunities exist, at least none that we know of—but they're hard to catch. You need direct contact with bodily fluids to get the diseases. This one," she stopped, letting the full impact of what she was about to say sink in, "this one is different. It's airborne; it's deadly. It's a filovirus in the purest form—unchanged, not mutated, just sitting beneath the earth for thousands of years, waiting to be released. And during all of that time, the human population _hasn't_ remained static—_we've_ changed, mutated—lost most, if not all, of the natural resistance that was bred into the original survivors' descendants."

Connelly sat back once more, the air clearly gone from his sails. "So what you're saying is…"

She cut him off. "What I'm saying is that the virus has been awakened from where it slept for thousands of years. It's hungry—very hungry. And it's just found a whole new herd of cattle to feed on…"

* * *

"I think I've got something," Connelly called out, squinting at the flat screen of his monitor. For the last several hours, he had been searching through database after database, hooked up to the Internet via the miracle of his state-of-the-art communications equipment and modern satellite technology. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the forest outside, painting the ground outside in dappled shades of green and gold. He sat back, rubbing his tired eyes, waiting for Eliana and Ardeth to make their way over to him. Callie had been gone for almost an hour, called away to Eric's bedside by one of Robillard's assistants. Imhotep had gone with her.

"Silphion, he said, right?" Connelly looked to Eliana for confirmation. She nodded. "Well, here it is, then." He turned back to the screen, watching as information on the elusive plant scrolled over the screen.

They had dug through pages and pages of material, some of it research, some of it junk, most of it completely useless. They based their search on the few details Imhotep had been able to provide about the plant, including its name and a quick sketch. The search had gone on for several hours, turning up nothing. Until now.

Connelly pointed to the screen, where a rough illustration of a plant shimmered on the display. "That look like our plant?" Ardeth and Eliana glanced between the monitor and Imhotep's sketch, comparing the two drawings. There was a remarkable similarity. Connelly went on, not waiting for them to agree or disagree. He, clearly, was convinced. "This says that the plant's name is silphium, but that it used to be called silphion, as well." He read quickly, skimming through the material on the page, absorbing the information at an astounding rate. He scrolled rapidly, summarizing as he went, his voice a droning monotone. "Miracle plant, native to Kyrenaika—modern-day Libya—and possibly more widespread, as well. Used for thousands of years, amazing healing properties, widely used in ancient potions and remedies, worth its weight in gold…blah, blah, blah…"

He stopped suddenly, a quizzical frown marring his rugged good looks. He turned to Eliana, watching her carefully. "You heard him say he's used this stuff before, right? One of those 'alternative remedies' he was trained in, or something?"

She nodded. Imhotep had been very clear about having witnessed for himself the healing properties of the plant. They had all heard him. Why that should be an issue now, she hadn't a clue. "Yes, that's right. And so what about it…?"

He looked at her oddly, then shot Ardeth a glance, too. Turning back to the screen, he checked the data one more time, then closed the lid of the laptop with a soft snap. He leaned back, watching their faces as he spoke.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," he began, his piercing blue eyes missing nothing. "If we're hoping to find this plant, we're out of luck. And if your buddy," he said, looking at Eliana, "if he's actually used this plant, like he says he has—well, he's one remarkable guy."

She looked at him, still clueless, but with a feeling of dread beginning to build, nonetheless. She had an awful hunch about where he was going with this. His next words confirmed it. "He either has a secret little herb garden somewhere—I mean _really_ secret—or he's lying, or he's just plain nuts."

Finally, Ardeth spoke up, his annoyance as plain as the tattoos painted on his skin. It had been a long afternoon, and even his legendary Med Jai patience was at an end. "Connelly, if you have something to say, please—just say it. You have a remarkable knack for obfuscating…

Connelly's sharp blue eyes remained pinned on Eliana, although he ostensibly addressed Ardeth. Somehow, someway, he _knew_ she knew more about this than she was letting on. There was obviously something going on between her and the Egyptian. He didn't know what, exactly, but he'd bet good money on there being _something_. _Hell, maybe Bay knew something too. Who would know, with this bunch? _They all seemed to have their share of secrets.

"What I mean, friends, is that he _can't_ have used that plant." He leaned back further in his chair, tipping the front legs up into the air, folding his arms behind his head, his posture one of relaxed calm. His next statement fell like a bomb, exploding in midair, shattering the stillness of the late afternoon. "No one here today _can_ have used it, unless they happen to be a couple thousand years old. Miracle it may have been, but it's long gone, supposedly from overuse. It became extinct way back when—right around the first century A.D."

* * *

"NO!" Imhotep stormed past Callie, heading down the hallway and into the room that held the ridiculous white bubble in which lay the ravaged remains of Eric's body. She reached out a restraining hand, trying in vain to halt him as he stalked down the corridor towards the room, now swarming with medical personnel. He'd never be allowed inside, and in his current state, he could jeopardize his ability to confer with her on Doug's case in the future. Robillard was not a believer in alternative medicine, and he was itching for a chance to completely ban the Egyptian man from the infirmary.

She ran after him, catching up to him just outside the doorway. "Imhotep—stop!" Panting, she managed to grab him by the arm. "You can't go in there. They won't allow it." Sadly, she added, "It's too late now, anyway. He's gone. There's nothing more we can do."

Eric had died scant minutes ago, while Robillard himself was examining him, finally succumbing completely to the virus. His blood pressure had dropped abruptly, bottoming out at a ridiculously low number, the steady seepage of blood reducing the volume so much that it couldn't sustain life. His heart, finally, had simply stopped. In a way, it was a blessing that he was gone. No one had even considered bringing out the portable defibrillator to try to shock him back. Even though he had been in a coma-like state during the last few days, he had suffered, and suffered greatly. Now, at last, his suffering was at an end.

Theirs had just begun.

Imhotep whirled around, his tortured brown eyes seeking hers, helpless rage and frustration painted in stark relief on his bronze features. "You do not understand," he whispered, his voice a low, hoarse thread of sound. "I _must_ help him. I _must_…"

She shook her head. "There is nothing more to be done, Imhotep. It's too late; he's gone." Her voice was soft, comforting—he was obviously in great distress over their failure to save Eric. She squeezed his forearm gently, trying to offer him some solace, some consolation.

He would have none of it, and shook her off, anger blazing in his eyes. "Do not tell me that—you have no idea what is at stake!"

Her eyes showed her confusion. "What is at stake? You mean the virus? Of course I know what's at stake…"

"No, you do not know!" He glared at her, anger and disgust radiating from him. It was not directed towards her, though—for all that his words were harsh, all his rage was directed inwardly. _He_ had been given the task; _he_ had failed. The fault was no one's but his. One more failure; one more soul lost. _When would it end?_

He turned away, his hands dropping to rest on a cart of equipment standing near the door. His fingers clenched around the sides, knuckles turning white from the pressure he exerted. He struggled for calm as anger boiled within him, threatening to burst forth at any moment. His voice fell to a whisper, icy cold, deadly calm. "You have no idea, Doctor, what is at stake…"

"What are you two doing in here?" Robillard's stern voice cut across the room. He quickly moved towards them, his brow lowering into a frown as he neared. "This room is strictly off limits—as of now no one is allowed in here but my team, unless they have special clearance from _me, _personally. Do you understand?"

Imhotep went rigid, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the sides of the cart. Callie extended a hand towards him, thought better of it, and let it drop to her side. She turned to Robillard, trying to placate the man. "Doctor, we just wanted to see if we could help in some way…"

"A general practitioner and a…a…_whatever_ it is he thinks he is, are not needed here." Robillard was bristling with indignation and righteous self-justification. "You would do best to simply stay out of the way…"

With a mighty shove, Imhotep overturned the cart, sending equipment and supplies flying in a clattering cascade across the stone floor. He whirled to face Robillard, fury in every line of his body. He opened his mouth, about to say something, then changed his mind, narrowing his eyes to slits as he glared at the startled French doctor. Giving Callie an almost equally hostile look, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the room, angrily kicking a box of disposable gloves out of his way as he left.

Callie watched, open-mouthed, as Imhotep stormed off down the hallway. She didn't even bother to turn towards Robillard as he spoke to her. "Doctor al Faran, I'm sure you'd be willing to inform _your friend_ there," he pointed after the departing man, "that he is no longer welcome in my infirmary?" He watched her in silence for a second or two, waiting for a response, and then, shaking his head in disgust, turned and walked back towards the isolation bubble.

In the bubble itself, a modern-day sarcophagus forged of plastic and Tyvek®, the swarm of medics fluttered over Eric's corpse, preparing it for disposal, their flurry and haste in completing the necessary medical rites and rituals giving them an almost insect-like appearance.

* * *

Imhotep emerged from the twilight jungle, a dark shadow guided by instinct alone—a bleeding, wounded animal unconsciously seeking a safe haven, somewhere to hide, somewhere to heal. Blinded by unshed tears, weary to the point of exhaustion, he stumbled over a fallen branch and fell to one knee—he had not seen the obstacle, he did not feel the pain. He staggered back to his feet—past thinking, past caring, past hoping. Nothing mattered anymore—he had failed, and his hopes for salvation had been the price for that failure. Eric had died, and Imhotep's last chance for absolution had died with him. _What was left?_

He had wandered in the jungle for hours after he had left Callie by Eric's deathbed, searching for some fragment of hope, however small. Perhaps all was not lost; perhaps Doug could yet be cured; perhaps the disease could still be stopped. But the bitter truth was that Eric _was_ dead, and Imhotep had not been able to help him. And therefore, he had been unable to help himself, as well. _How much longer would he have? How long before the great god tired of his endless failure and cast him back into the pit, subject once more to the clawed talons of the demons and the endless nightmare of the curse? How long?_

He walked blindly, unseeingly, until he came to a tent that stood alone, at the very edge of the camp. He pulled up short when he saw where his aimless wandering had led him, tipping his head back into the night and drawing in great lungfuls of air. _Of course he had come here. Where else would he go?_ His mind may not have guided his footsteps, but his heart surely had, leading him here like a homing beacon. For a long while, he hovered like a ghost in the darkness, staring at the tent, lit softly from within by the light of a single lantern. Vague shadows danced over the thin nylon walls, tormenting him with images of the woman inside.

Her father had been angry with her for choosing such a remote location, but Eliana had insisted that her tent be here, as far from the noise and chaos of the camp as possible. It was still well within the protective sphere of the clearing's guarded perimeter, but far enough away to afford her some degree of privacy. At the time, even though he had privately agreed with her father that she should be closer to the center of the camp, Imhotep had not argued the point with her—to do so would have come too close to admitting that he cared. And if he were honest, a less than honorable thought had motivated him, as well. If she were isolated from the others, she was therefore more accessible to him…

He saw the light go off in her tent, and a look approaching panic crossed his face. _What was he doing here? Why could he not just walk away?_ She was poison to him—as much a curse as the Hom Dai—and yet he could not stop seeking her out, desperate for the sight of her, hungry for the sound of her voice, starved for her touch…

A low moan escaped his lips, the sound as lost and alone as he felt. He should leave; he should turn and walk away; he should run as fast and as far as he was capable of running and not look back. He knew he should. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. But instead of carrying him away, his footsteps took him to the closed door of the tent, and he lifted his hand to the flap, groping for it, seeking the zippered opening, seeking her…

Before he could reach it, the flap moved, opening to reveal the shadowy interior of the tent, the darkness framing the woman who stood there, watching him. Some instinct had brought her to the door, some inexplicable force had told her he was there, and she had answered that call. Perhaps she had heard the sound he had made, perhaps not. It didn't matter. Not now. For an age, neither moved, neither spoke. The dark silence of the night wrapped around them, cradling them in a cocoon of intimacy, binding them together in the moonlit shadows.

Eliana's eyes searched the darkness that partially obscured his face and read the weariness there. He looked almost haggard—drained from the long, hopeless day spent in a fruitless, futile search for some chance, however small, of saving Eric. His characteristic aloofness was gone, the arrogance replaced by a deep, forlorn loneliness, and her heart twisted in her chest to see such pain in his eyes. _If only, if only…_ She took a step closer, holding out a hand to him, attempting to bridge the distance between them.

He drank in the sight of her, his soul parched for her, his heart aching. She was everything he had ever wanted and more, and he desperately needed the comfort she could bestow on his weary soul. He craved her nearness; he yearned for it with a hunger that surpassed anything he had ever known or felt in all the long years of his existence. His gaze swept over her, missing nothing—she was already dressed for sleep, her hair hung long and loose around her shoulders; a long shirt draped her slender form, hugging her graceful curves from neck to knee. Although the gloom masked her features, he could see that her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed from weeping. His mind filled in the reason for her tears—_because of Eric's loss; because of his own failure._

Finally, she spoke, breaking the fragile silence. "I'm sorry, Imhotep."

He shook his head in confusion. "What?" His mind felt slow, addled, like he was swimming through a thick fog. Her apology made no sense; _she_ had nothing to apologize for. _He_ was the one who had failed.

"I know that Eric is gone. I know…" Her voice faltered, broke. The tears came again, leaking from the corners of her eyes and shimmering in the moonlight like diamonds. He very nearly reached out to brush them away, stopping himself only at the last moment. "I know how much it meant to you—to save him, to complete the task…to break the curse. I'm sorry."

A deep, rattling sigh issued from his lungs, and he bowed his head. "I am sorry as well. I should have been the one to tell you; you should not have learned from someone else—forgive me."

She took another step towards him, reaching out and this time touching him on the arm. A draft of air fanned the bare skin revealed by the short sleeves of her shirt, raising goose bumps and sending a shiver rippling through her. It was a warm night, but the breeze was cool. He put his hand on hers, sensing the chill. "Eliana, you are cold—I should not keep you out here, shivering in the dark. Go inside; go back to your bed."

She shook her head, looking up into the haunted depths of his eyes, sensing the need that even he could not hide. "No. I'll not go inside. Not alone." There was pleading in her voice as she tightened her grip on his arm. "Come with me, Imhotep. Please. You shouldn't be alone right now…" Remembering the hours spent earlier, in search of the elusive plant, she added, "And we need to talk."

He didn't protest as she tugged on his arm, pulling him towards the open door of the tent. At the threshold, he kicked off his sandals, leaving them outside, not wanting to dirty the interior. He stepped into the small room formed by the thin canvas walls and ceiling, and immediately felt the warmth of the interior seeping through his skin, chasing the chill from his soul. Or maybe the warmth had nothing to do with being inside at all, and everything to do with the woman standing next to him. Regardless of its source, the warmth was a living, tangible thing, and he basked in the comfort it afforded him.

She bent to light the lamp, but his hand caught and held hers—no light was needed. The moon was still almost full, and its light washed through the thin material of the tent, providing them with enough illumination to see each other, enough light to paint their bodies with a soft, silvery glow. He shook his head, and she understood. No lantern, then—no light but the moon. He dropped her hand and turned away.

"Who told you that Eric had died?" he finally asked. He needed to know—needed to hear that she hadn't learned of her friend's untimely end from some cold, uncaring source. Her father would be best, Callie a distant second. Even the accursed Med Jai would be better than the French doctor or his cronies.

"Dad told me." Thank the gods; for once fate had been kind. "He found me right away, as soon as he found out himself." She paused, not sure what to say. Eric had been a dear friend, and she mourned his passing, but the disease had robbed him of life long before the end had come. It was a blessing that his suffering was finally over. "It's not your fault, Imhotep. There was nothing you could have done."

"I could have found the silphion," he said, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. "If I had found it, he might have had a chance…"

"He had no chance, then, Imhotep, if it depended on that," she said, her voice quiet, solemn. "No matter how hard you looked, you would not have found that plant." His raised his head in question, watching with weary eyes. "It's gone, Imhotep, extinct—it doesn't exist anymore. Nowhere. It's been gone for two thousand years."

"Gone?" His voice was puzzled, uncertain of what he was hearing, but his eyes sharpened slightly. "How can it be gone? Silphion is one of the most valuable herbs that ever existed. Great care was taken to ensure that its supply was plentiful. Surely you are wrong…"

She shook her head. "No. It's gone. It died out around the first century A.D., probably because of overuse. It is extinct—the source of our data was the best on the planet. You will not find that plant—not anywhere." Her eyes were filled with sympathy. "I'm sorry, Imhotep. There must be some other way…"

"No," he said, biting back a curse. "I know of no other. There is none." He turned from her, pacing the narrow width of the tent and back again, coming to a halt just in front of her. A look of complete, utter disbelief was on his face. "How could this happen?" he asked, shaking his head slowly. "In my time, silphion grew profusely all along the Nile, from Napata to Pelusium. It was everywhere." He lifted his eyes to hers, the disbelief slowly fading into an angry revulsion. "How can it be gone? How can it be…what was the word? _Extinct?_ How can this be?"

She put a hand on his arm, lightly squeezing, trying to offer some comfort. "It happens with unfortunate regularity in this age, Imhotep. Species become extinct all the time—daily, in some cases. Apparently, it happened in ages past, as well. Even two thousand years ago, the world supported many more people than it did in your lifetime. Today there are immeasurably more. They spread out, build cities, build homes, push further and further into nature…" Seeing the disgust on his face, she stopped, a helpless look on her face. It was obvious he didn't agree with the point she was making.

"Egypt also grew and expanded, Eliana." His voice was filled with censure. "We were a mighty empire—the mightiest on earth. And yet we did not foolishly destroy what the gods had given into our care. One of humanity's greatest gifts and utmost responsibilities is stewardship of the earth and its treasures. Has this concept died along with the old gods? Does man no longer recognize his place on Earth and his role in maintaining it?"

She had no answer for him. How could she justify man's callous disregard for nature's bounty? How could she explain that it was only recently that humanity had begun to understand its role and responsibility in Earth's ecosystem and take steps to repair the damage that had already been done? How could she expect him to understand, when she herself didn't? There were no easy answers to his questions.

But in the end, perhaps it wasn't answers he needed, as much as it was simple comfort. He had given his all to save Eric's life. He had called upon knowledge and gifts that had lain dormant for centuries, trying to hold Eric's soul within his ravaged body. And in the end, it had all been for naught. The gods would have their due; the plague would win this battle. They might win the war, and even that was a slim hope, but the battle over Eric's fate had been lost.

Two steps put her near enough to wrap her arms around his waist; another brought her close enough to rest her head on his chest. She hugged him tightly, letting him know without words that she was there for him. She chose her words carefully, knowing full well that he blamed himself for Eric's death. "Imhotep, you did your best. You tried everything you knew, used every remedy available to you. This was not your fault. Even modern medicine couldn't save Eric."

Slowly, his arms came around her, pulling her harder against the solid heat of his body. His words were muffled against her hair, but she could hear his sorrow, feel his angry frustration. "He was so young, Eliana, so young. He should have had decades more to live." And then the anger turned inward. "I am so sorry." His arms tightened around her, almost cutting off her breath, but she ignored it, knowing he didn't realize how tightly he held her. There was pain in his voice, and disillusionment. "I failed him. I told you I would try to help him, and I could not. I failed you as well. And I failed Amun-Re."

Eliana leaned back in his arms, cupping his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. She shook her head. "You did not fail, Imhotep. Amun-Re charged you with eradicating the plague. There is still time to do so, even though Eric is gone. You did not fail the god." She went on. "You did not fail Eric. You gave him everything you could, everything that the other doctors would allow. This was not your fault." Her thumbs stroked across his cheekbones, tracing a circular pattern over the bronze skin. He closed his eyes, not willing to look at her, accepting the caress, but not allowing it to soothe him, not able to forgive himself for his perceived failure. Her voice grew softer, gentler, as she tried to offer what comfort she could. "And you did not fail me. You told me from the first how difficult this would be, how precarious his condition, how virulent the disease. From the very beginning, you were completely straightforward about his chances for survival. You tried, and for that I thank you. You _did not_ fail me."

His eyes opened at last, and he stared down into her face, seeing the compassion there, the kindness inherent in her nature. For all that she mourned Eric, she seemed equally concerned for _his_ welfare, _his_ state of mind. Imhotep was a man unused to compassion—even in his natural lifetime, he had been for the most part alone, for the same qualities that had propelled him into his exalted position within the temple had served to keep others at a distance. He was looked to for leadership, for authority, for decisiveness. He was the one to whom others turned.

And to whom could he turn? For a time, he had had Anck-su-namun, and their love had filled a void within him, given him something that he lacked. But even their relationship had been unequal, mismatched. Even Anck-su-namun had expected him to lead, to dominate, to always be in control. She had looked to him for salvation—in the end, she had expected him to save her, to save them both. And in the end, of course, he had failed her as well. The Hom-Dai had been his reward for that failure.

The Hom-Dai, three thousand years of excruciating pain and endless isolation, and two awakenings, both filled with horror, hatred, death and betrayal. Fair to say, he was unused to compassion, unaccustomed to being comforted. And yet, here she was, Anck-su-namun but not Anck-su-namun, Eliana now, a woman his soul recognized and his heart knew, someone he had alternately bullied, ignored, used, and hurt deeply, and _she_ was trying to comfort _him_. It was a crazy reverse image, a strange inverting of circumstance, and it threw him off balance, caught him off guard.

Before he regained a sense of equilibrium, before he could gather up the reigns of his self-control, she was pulling him down to her, her lips moving lightly over his. The comfort she offered now was without words—passion would be his solace, desire his absolution. In the quiet of her tent, their hands and mouths moved over each other in a voiceless affirmation of faith, and trust, and life.

The kiss, which had begun only as an expression of comfort, grew and deepened, becoming something velvety dark and druggingly erotic. Their mouths moved against each other like wordless poetry, each soft brush of their lips, each caressing flicker of their tongues adding another stanza to the timeless verse. Opening his mouth over hers, delving into the honeyed sweetness of her mouth, Imhotep felt himself falling into her moist warmth like a drowning man finally surrendering to the ceaseless pull of the current. He stopped fighting against the magnetic pull she exerted on him, ceased the futile struggle to resist the hold she had on his soul. And with his surrender came the knowledge that had had gained immeasurably more than he had lost.

His hold on her tightened, his hands burned through the thin jersey knit of the shirt she wore, moving over her body with the deft touch of an artist. In his hands, her body was living clay, moving with him, allowing him to sculpt and mold her form to better serve his pleasure, and hers. If Imhotep had given himself over to the simmering crucible of passion, Eliana was lost there as well, adrift on a sensual sea, sinking into the warm oblivion of desire. Heat surged through her, running like bubbling lava through her veins, finally gathering itself into a burning warmth that pooled hot and heavy in her abdomen. She whimpered softly, breaking the kiss, pulling back to look into his eyes. They were simmering like cauldrons of molten ore, glowing with an inner heat like two twin stars. Her lips parted. "Imhotep…"

His fingers fell on her mouth, pressing lightly against her lips, cutting off the words. "No," he whispered, slowly moving his head from side to side. "No more words. Words are useless, pointless. There have been entirely too many words between us already." He touched his lips to the corner of her mouth—a light, teasing touch that scorched and burned nevertheless. "Tonight, we will let our bodies speak, let our hands and lips carry our message to each other." One of his hands tangled itself in her hair, wrapping around the long strands, and exerting the gentlest pressure he pulled her head back, baring the long column of her neck to his lips and tongue. The other hand caressed the length of her arm before dropping to her waist and skimming down to her hip. His fingers tightened on her, pulling her fully against him, letting her feel the heat of his body and the swell of his arousal.

She felt the tip of his tongue move down the bare skin of her neck, felt the warm rush of his breath against the dampness he had created. Desire arced through her body, moving in relentless waves through her veins, lancing through her like hot bolts of lightning. Her mind was shutting down, filled with a hazy fog of passion, but she heard the words he whispered against the curve of her shoulder. "Perhaps we should have been silent from the beginning. Can you not feel the truth in the silence?"

She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back further as he bent over her, moving down over the curve of her shoulder to press his mouth against the slope of her breast. The moist heat of his breath dampened the fabric of the shirt she wore, heightening the sensation to an almost painful pleasure. _Words? What were words?_ All that existed was the silence, and within that silence, the feel of his hands and mouth moving over her. "God, yes, Imhotep." Her voice was a low groan. "No words. Just touch me." Her hands moved over his broad shoulders, caressing his neck, running up and over the smooth bareness of his scalp, the feel of his warm skin beneath her fingers incredibly erotic, exquisitely sensual. She pulled him to her more tightly, reveling in the chance to touch him, feel him touching her. His mouth moved, his breath hot and damp over the swollen peak of her breast. Desire coiled even more tightly within her, and she strained against him. One more word, one more entreaty escaped her lips. "Please…"

His hands moved to the hem of the long shirt she wore, gripping the fabric and pulling it up and over her head, stripping it from her and leaving her breasts bare to his eyes and his touch. He lifted his hands to cup her ripe weight, thumbs rubbing erotically over the turgid nipples. He bent to touch his lips to the now bare skin, tongue flicking out to tease and tantalize, mouth roving over her in a heady promise of pleasure still to come. Her only remaining garment was a scant scrap of lace and nylon.

He lifted his head from her breasts, his lips still moist from the sensual exploration. His eyes were heavy-lidded and obsidian-dark, lit from within by the fire of his hunger. In silence weighted by the intoxicating heaviness of desire, he reached out, his eyes still locked on hers, his breath fanning her face while his fingers skimmed over the taut skin of her abdomen, trailing lower, finally slipping underneath the lacy band encircling her hips. Slowly, with exquisite patience, he slid his hands around to her sides, the movement inexorably pushing the undergarment down over her hips. He knelt before her, unhurriedly undressing her, sliding the garment off inch by inch, following its path with his hands and lips. By the time he lifted her feet, one at a time, to completely remove the wisp of material, she was shaking, shuddering, burning for him. He tossed the flimsy scrap of fabric aside, still kneeling, running his hands up the length of her calves, around to the back of her thighs, and upwards to curve over the gentle swell of her softly rounded bottom. Pulling her towards him, he pressed his face against her abdomen, closing his eyes and laying his cheek against the softness of her skin.

She cradled his head in her hands, looking down at him kneeling before her, feeling strangely like some graven image come to life, an icon before which he offered himself as a living sacrifice, a devout disciple. It was a wild, untamed feeling—earthy, pagan, tinged ever-so-slightly with a delicious sinfulness—and her blood heated at the image. He raised his head and looked at her, and the feeling of delectable wickedness grew even stronger when she saw the smoldering inferno of his eyes, the golden highlights like little tongues of flame.

She watched as he moved his hands, running them lightly around her hips, slipping them between her thighs, gently nudging her legs apart. His fingers moved to the shadowy valley he had revealed, gently touching, moving aside the soft folds as though they were fragile petals, exposing the tender bud that lay beneath. He nuzzled her there, lips and tongue moving over the core of her femininity, laving her with fire, drinking in the nectar of her body like a parched man drinking from the chalice of the gods.

The dark fire began to burn more strongly inside her, heat flaring up through her womb, engulfing her vital organs, pouring through her veins. The sensations he was stirring in her built into an almost painful frenzy of pleasure, an arching throb that threatened to spiral into a mindless, wanton ecstasy. Her legs shook from the effort to remain standing, her fingers dug into the hard muscle of his shoulders, her head fell back, and her lips parted in a low, keening moan of pleasure. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast, his beautiful artist's hands anchoring her to him as he continued to stoke the inferno he had built within her.

She writhed in his grip, trying to twist away, straining to move closer, helpless to do either as he held her against his mouth, his one hand splayed over her hip to hold her still, his other moving between her legs, his fingers delving deep, working in tandem with his tongue to bring her past the point of sanity, towards madness and beyond. In a rippling cascade of sensation, she felt herself shatter and cried out hoarsely, sucked into a vortex of feeling and emotion, color and light, spinning out of control, anchored to the world by a thin thread of reality that centered around him and him alone.

He held her tightly to him, his arms around her as the shivering aftershocks of pleasure trembled through her, running his hands over her lithe body, murmuring softly against her skin, pressing his lips to her lightly tanned skin. Slowly, the shattered pieces of her world gathered themselves up and fell into place once more, and she opened her eyes, looking down into the face of the man who still knelt before her, the man who had just given her the most exquisite pleasure she had ever experienced in her life. The man she loved.

Slowly, she knelt before him, gazing deep into his eyes, lifting her hands to caress his face, running her thumbs over his high, sculpted cheekbones, pulling his head downwards as she closed her eyes and dragged him into a kiss that was less a kiss and more a dark, carnal promise. She could taste herself on his lips, his mouth still moist and warm from pleasuring her, and the sensation was nothing she would have expected. In her relative innocence, she had no idea how erotic it could be, how much an aphrodisiac.

Heady with the sense of her own power over him, she pulled away, breaking the kiss, watching as he dragged in a deep, shuddering breath, not moving, just watching her with eyes that blazed hunger. She reached out, raking her fingers down his chest, feeling the hard expanse of muscle and sinew beneath the rough shirt he wore, and she was suddenly starving for the sight of his smooth bronzed flesh, the feel of his body, the taste of his skin.

Her fingers worked on the few buttons at the collar of his shirt, loosening them and pulling open the sides, baring the flesh beneath to her touch. Moving closer, she pressed her open mouth to the bronze skin of his neck, running her tongue lightly over the hollow at the base of his throat where she could feel the throb of his pounding pulse. He closed his eyes, the feel of her mouth like wet silk on his skin.

His hands reached out for her, closing around her shoulders to pull her closer, but she evaded his grasp, moving away from his seeking hands. His eyes opened again, one eyebrow raised questioningly, but when he saw the impish gleam in her eyes, the small pout on her lips, he smiled, reading her mind, understanding what she wanted. Her words confirmed it. "You've had your turn. Now it's mine…"

He bowed his head, still kneeling, but sinking back on his haunches now, surrendering to her. His hands dropped to rest on his knees. "As you wish, my goddess. I am your servant. Do with me as you will." He watched her from under his lashes, a small, playful smile dancing over his finely sculpted mouth. He saw her bite her lip, almost as if she were unsure of what to do with him, now that he was in her power. After all, her initiation into the act of love had occurred scant days ago—for all practical purposes, she was still an innocent. When she didn't move for several seconds, he began to wonder if perhaps he should take matters back into his own hands.

He underestimated her. In a fluid move, Eliana stood, walking behind him, dropping to her knees and placing her hands on his shoulders, running them down over the broad planes of his back, curving them around to lie flat on the hard, ridged contours of his stomach. He could feel her softness against him, the hard peaks of her breasts pressing against his back through the rough fabric of his shirt. He fought down the desire to turn around and take her into his arms immediately, dispensing with her playfulness. She would have her wish. She would set the pace, determine the course. But gods, how he wished she would hurry…

Her breath was warm as it fanned the back of his neck, her mouth soft and moist as she moved it over him, trailing tiny kisses up his neck, nibbling on his earlobe. As her mouth teased him, her hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingers splaying over the warm skin of his abdomen, smooth and bare to her touch. Lightly, she ran them up and over his chest, flickering over his hard, masculine nipples in a tender, teasing caress, lovingly tracing each line and angle of his body, memorizing the touch and feel of him. Vaguely, he wondered again if this had been a wise idea, to play along with her as he had. Every movement of her hand, every warm breath, every teasing touch stoked the flames of his desire ever higher, until it was a struggle to contain the burning need. He was already heavy and aching with it, his desire hard and stiff and full to bursting. He stifled a groan as she moved to dispense with his shirt.

Placing her hands on either side of his lean waist, she pushed upwards, her palms moving over the sculpted musculature of his sides, up and over the ridged contours of his ribs, raising the shirt with them as they journeyed onward. "Raise your arms," she commanded in a low whisper, her breath hot on his ear. He did so, slowly lifting them over his head, and she caught her breath at the sheer beauty of the muscles rippling beneath his skin. The temptation to touch, to taste, was overpowering, and she pressed her lips to his back, tasting the salty musk of his skin, inhaling its heady scent. As long as she lived, she would not tire of this, would never grow weary of the joy of touching him, feeling his strength and power beneath her hands.

Finally moving her hands from where they rested on his ribcage, she ran them up and over the bulging muscles of his shoulders, learning anew the hard bulk of his biceps, the lean sinew of his forearms. The impediment of the shirt now removed, she laced her fingers with his and, hands entwined, moved their arms back down to their sides in a graceful arc. The movement brought her up against his back, pressing her fully against him, and her breath caught at the exhilarating feel of warm skin against warm skin. Lightly, she rubbed her breasts against his back, enjoying his sudden stiffening, the quickly indrawn breath he took.

Her hands untwined from his and moved to the waistband of his pants. He swallowed hard, flexing his hands into fists at his sides, gathering the reins of his self-control even more tightly. Her hands slipped underneath the fabric, running over his hot skin, enjoying the feel of him, openly tantalizing him. Still, he let her have her way, set her own pace. Finally, she moved to the fastening, undoing it bit by torturous bit, until he thought he would scream in helpless frustration. Every move she made dragged her breasts over his skin, every touch of her hands heightened his already painful arousal.

Finally, the accursed garment was loosened sufficiently for her to push it down over his hips, freeing him from the fabric's rough captivity. His arousal sprang free, bursting from its confinement, and he heard her small gasp of shocked pleasure as she felt the length and breadth of him against her hand. Not satisfied, though, that she had sufficiently tormented him, she stepped the torture up a notch, taking him in her hand, running her palm along the rigid, throbbing length of him, her thumb caressing the velvet tip as her palm moved up and down along the shaft. With her other hand, she cupped the soft weight of his testicles, eliciting a deep groan from low in his throat. _Gods, where had she learned to touch him like this? Surely not in this lifetime…_

He closed his eyes, on fire for her, perilously close to losing control, wanting nothing but to lose himself in the soft heat of her body. Still touching him, still rubbing against his back, her lips moved against his ear. "Stand up."

He was only too happy to comply. The trousers that were bunched around the straining muscles of his thighs made it somewhat awkward to stand, but he managed, and when he was finally on his feet, she stripped the garment from him completely, her hands taking full advantage of the opportunity to learn the shape and contour of his legs, from the rock-hard thighs to the lean calves. He had removed his sandals before entering the tent, and so finally, when he stepped free of the pants, he was as naked as she. She stood, sliding up the length of his body, and he gritted his teeth in an effort to maintain control.

"Now turn around." Another semi-imperious command, and her voice wobbled only slightly as she spoke it. He chuckled, and obeyed, turning to face her. The look in her eyes when she saw him facing her was reward enough for his patience in playing her game so far. After the briefest pause, she lifted her eyes from that prominent part of his anatomy to his face, and he took in her wide eyes, her flushed face and her shallow, rapid breathing with an amusement he kept well hidden. "You play with fire, goddess," he warned, but still he remained passive, docile. Only his eyes showed the true state of his emotions, glittering in a feral warning, letting her know that she was testing the limits of his endurance.

"The servant dares to command his mistress?" she laughed, but there was a hint of uncertainty in the laughter, suggesting that she knew how out of her league she was in such play. Oddly enough, her timid wantonness endeared her all the more to him. How long had it been since anyone on earth had trusted him enough, felt comfortable enough, to play with him, even if the game was an erotic one, a complete submersion into the realm of sexuality and sensual pleasure? He couldn't remember—at best, it had been millennia ago; at worst, it had never happened at all—and something of the wistfulness of his thoughts must have shown in his eyes.

Eliana moved nearer, cupping her hands around his face, her heart in her eyes, and even though she had promised not to speak of it, would not speak of it, her love for him unfurled from her heart and sent out shoots and tendrils to every part of her. It was a living, growing thing, and the gods willing, one day soon it would find some fertile soil in which to take root, have a chance to grow and bloom. Gods, how she loved him! It was an ever-present ache inside her, wanting only to be set free, to be allowed to see the light of day. Her voice broke when she spoke his name. "Imhotep…"

He caught her hands then, bringing them to his lips, pressing a kiss into each palm, his long fingers caressing hers as he stared into the emerald green of her eyes. He was drowning in her, losing himself within her, caught in the ebb and flow of some powerful, amorphous emotion, and as his gaze raked over her face, memorizing every inch of every precious feature, he realized how very lost he was.

The words—the declaration—came bursting through the fortress he had built around his heart and he hadn't the strength of will or the desire, even, to stop it. All they had was now, the only thing that existed in the world was them—their bodies, their desire…their love. Yesterday was dust, tomorrow was a shapeless, shifting void—reality was here and now, and he was tired of fighting the demands of his heart, the hunger of his soul. The words came, and he did not stop them. "Eliana, I…"

She stopped him. Afraid of what he was about to say, not knowing what was in his heart, what had almost tumbled from his lips, her hand moved to cover his mouth. Her lips quickly followed, moving against him, drinking the words from his lips before they were spoken. She pulled back, her voice a husky whisper. "No words, remember? No words. Just this…"

She pulled him down to the blankets on the floor of the tent, pushing against his chest until he lay on the makeshift bed, then kneeling by his side. Running her hands down his body, she could feel a shift in the balance between them—a subtle reversing of the tension, letting her know that their game was almost at an end. Still, though, he let her lead the way, accepting her silent ministrations, his only response the gentle movement of his hands over her body. Bending over him, she lowered her lips to his mouth, parting them with hers, stealing inside with her tongue to taste him, then moving lower still, laying a trail of moist heat over his jaw, his neck, her tongue flicking out to taste the bare skin of his chest, to circle the taut hardness of his nipples. His skin smelled of man and musk, a sensual, earthy fragrance unique to him, and she reveled in the delight to her senses.

Lifting her head, she saw that he watched her, and she smiled at him. He reached up to touch her hair, tangling his fingers in the glossy strands, pulling her towards him. "Your hair feels like silk," he said. "Like a curtain of the purest, finest silk." She smiled again, extricating her hair from his grasp, letting it trail over his skin as she moved down his body. The feel of the softness of her hair, and hands and mouth moving over him was a form of superb torture, and he shuddered, knowing that if they waited much longer, he would be unable to restrain himself. He opened his mouth to tell her so, to tell her that they could no longer play this game of hers, when she bent lower still and took him in her mouth. Stars exploded behind his eyes and he went completely still. He was staggered by depth of the sensations that surged through him, shaken to the core as he felt the hot, wet sweetness of her lips closing over his turgid member. He groaned low and deep, his hands once more seeking out the silken glory of her hair, twisting into the soft strands, moving through the burnished length, caressing her scalp through the glossy fall.

Her lips traveled his length and back again, and she circled the satin smooth head of his shaft with her tongue, causing every drop of blood in his body to instantly rush to his groin, setting up a throbbing ache that he knew would be the end of him. "No more," he growled harshly, pulling her up from him, although not without gentleness. "No more unless you want this to be over before it has begun."

She made a soft sound of protest, but allowed him to pull her up along his body anyway, enjoying the delicious sensation of skin sliding over skin. And then an impish twinkle grew in her eyes, and she whispered low, seductively, "But you are my servant this night. Is not my wish your command?"

He groaned, low and deep and harsh. "And what is your wish, goddess? Tell me what it is you want…"

"Ah, Imhotep, let me show you…" Slowly she lifted herself over him, positioning herself so that her hips straddled his, his rigid member straining upwards, hot and hard and aching to be inside her. Smiling, a devilish light in her eyes, she eased herself down, taking him inside her bit by bit, an inch at a time, but never fully, never completely. If he moved, if he thrust upwards, she pulled away, only lowering herself again when he lay still. He saw the glint of devilment in her eyes, knew that she enjoyed the power she had over him, the control that he had given her. And, at least for a short while longer, a very short while, he was sure enough of his own power to allow her this control. But by the gods, a man could only take so much, and if she didn't end this torture soon, he knew he _would_ lose control, turn into a mindless, rutting boar and simply drive himself into her moist, pliant body, desperately seeking the release that she dangled just in front of him. He was self-confident enough to give her free rein, self-aware enough to know when the game had to end. And with her next tantalizing downward glide, he knew the time had come.

In a heartbeat, their roles reversed—she became the disciple, he the master. In one smooth move, he grasped her hips and pulled her down fully onto his engorged length, smiling at her wide-eyed shock, her open-mouthed gasp of surprised pleasure, rolling over with her until he was on top of her, hips resting in the cradle of her thighs, still pressed fully into her tight, slick depths. Shifting his body so that he would not hurt her, he rested his weight on his elbows, tangling his hands in the silken skein of her hair, kissing her neck, biting gently on her earlobe. "A goddess must be merciful, my love," he whispered in her ear, his voice low, seductive. "Or she reaps the fruits of her shameless behavior."

And then he began to move. He started slow, each long, smooth stroke pushing harder, deeper than before, setting an unhurried, even rhythm that started a throbbing, pulsating hum deep within her body. She felt him everywhere inside her—moving within her body, flowing through her blood, beating in her heart. He was a part of her, not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, as well—the other half of her soul. Her hands slid up the bunched muscles of his arms, gliding over his shoulders, caressing the sinewy strength of his neck. Her voice was a choked, gasping sob as the eternal, ancient tempo of their dance built, intensified, "Imhotep…"

"Eliana, I have never before in my life allowed someone to torment me as you have this evening." Each phrase was punctuated by a long, gliding thrust, each word accented by the pounding of her heart. The spiraling current of pleasure building inside turned her into a mindless, wanting creature, and she only half-listened as he continued to speak. "I doubt that I will have the courage to do so again, now that I know how truly merciless you can be…" His words were light, teasing, but in his heart he knew the truth of his words. Just being with her like this was an act of courage on his part, for he knew how very close he was to relinquishing his hold on his heart, his future, his destiny. Every time they were together brought him closer and closer to a willing capitulation, an abject surrender of his heart and soul into her hands, for better or worse, for all eternity.

He watched her face as he moved within her, seeing the flush of color high on her cheeks, noting how she sucked in a tiny breath every time he drove into her. Shifting slightly, he altered the angle of his hips, allowing for a deeper invasion. He moved harder, faster, his hips driving against her, forcing out a moan of anguished ecstasy. "Eliana." He felt the subtle tensing in her body, recognized it for what it was. She was only moments away now, straining for the release, reaching for it, grasping. "Now, my love," he whispered against her lips, "now." He took her mouth in a deep, hot kiss, his tongue plundering her sweetness, swallowing her strangled cry as he thrust once more, hard and deep, and she found what she sought. As they both found it.

She tightened around him, clenching and unclenching as wave upon wave of pleasure rolled over her, drowning her in a sea of sensation. He plunged into her one last time and went rigid, his face freezing into a look of agonized ecstasy, a low groan of fulfillment escaping his lips as his entire body tensed for release. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her fast as he emptied himself into her body, his throbbing manhood pulsating within the sheath of her flesh, his hot seed pouring into her. Even after the final tremors had shuddered from their trembling bodies, he stayed within her, lowering his forehead to hers as their breathing steadied, as their sweat-dampened skin cooled in the soft night air. Lifting his head, he stared into her eyes for a long, timeless moment before kissing her once more. This time, their kiss was one of exquisite gentleness, a silent vow of the hearts, spoken in deed, not words, sealed with the soft caress of lips.

Finally, with a sigh, he removed himself from her warm depths, lowering himself to her side and gathering her into his arms. They lay there quietly, bodies sated, exhausted, skin still damp from their exertion, but hands still roving, exploring, even now still hungry to learn the shape and feel of each other. The silence lengthened, neither one wanting to shatter the reverent hush that had enfolded them in the quiet dark of the tent. There was magic in the air—a delicate enchantment that wrapped around them and whispered promises of things they dared not hope for—to speak would break the fragile spell, and neither wished to risk that.

Finally, Imhotep shifted, moving away from Eliana's side, and she reached out for him, pulling him back to her. "No," she whispered, half asleep already, "don't leave. Stay here with me." Her hands tightened on him. "Please."

He smiled against the silk of her hair as he pulled her head down to his shoulder and covered her with the blanket he had been reaching for. "I will not leave you, Eliana. Not tonight." He pressed a kiss to her temple. For the first time, he dared to let down the walls around his heart, and the brilliant warmth of her nearness flooded over him and through him, carrying off the broken pieces of his soul and beginning the painstaking process of fitting them back together once more.

* * *

The nightmare was a living, breathing thing, filled with power and darkness. Clawed fingers held him tight, mercilessly prying open his eyes, forcing him to watch the carnage as his friends, his family, were hideously, horribly slaughtered. Knives flashed, hooked loops probed, and men's screams rang out as human flesh was pulled from still living bodies and piled into glistening, viscous heaps on the stone floor. Blood ran like water, trickling like an evil flood across the ground; cries of agony filled the air. The smell of death and dying—the sweet, sticky scent of blood as bodies were hacked into; the reek of urine and feces as dying men's bowels loosed—surrounded him, permeating the air with a hideous, horrid stench. Bile rose in his throat, he retched and gagged, but still the hands held him fast. And then came the awful silence as screams faded, as air rattled from dying lungs. The carcasses were wrapped in rags—no fine linen for this human debris, no sweet smell of spices to perfume the bodies. Nothing to ease their passage to the other side. Just pain and suffering and death, and the promise of waiting damnation.

And then they came for him. The hands tightened, held him immobile, pried open his mouth as cold iron bit into warm flesh. He felt his own flesh being torn from his body, felt the sting of the blade, the ripping tug as flesh separated from flesh, the choking feel of warm blood running down his throat. Throughout it all, he heard the sounds of low voices chanting, speaking the words that would damn him; tie him forever to this agony of life in death, death in life.

No merciful disembowelment for him; no generous slaughter. No, for him they had planned other, more spectacular horrors. Still gagging on the gore that washed down his throat from the stump of his severed tongue, weak from the loss of blood, wretched from watching his friends succumb to the butchery, he barely struggled as they held him down, binding him from head to foot in length after length of cloth. They covered his eyes, his nose—he couldn't see, couldn't breath—and finally he panicked, struggling against the restraints, desperate to drag air into his burning lungs. His arms and legs were bound tightly, though, and his struggles were to no avail.

Helpless, he felt them lift his body into the air, move it quickly to another place, anxious to be rid of him, and finally he felt himself falling, falling, until with a painful thud he landed on his back on cold, hard stone. He rolled to one side and felt the hardness of a wall; he rolled to the other and felt the same. _Gods, this was the end_—he knew where he was, knew what they planned—and his entire life passed before his eyes in the space of a heartbeat.

Agony filled him—he had failed, failed utterly, miserably. She was gone from him forever, cursed for all eternity—cursed by him, by the words he had read over her beloved body, cursed by the men who had forced him to read them. His priests, too, had suffered and died on his behalf—more loyal friends he had never had, and because of him they had been cast into the burning inferno of damnation. They had been the only family he had ever known. All were gone; all were damned—because of him and him alone. The physical pain paled into insignificance next to the mental anguish of that knowledge.

But yet one more thing remained. There was a pause as one of his tormentors was sent to fetch the pail containing the scarabs. He heard the swift footsteps as the man returned, heard them whisper above him, knew what was coming. In a skittering deluge, the beetles poured over him, barbed feet hooking on the cloth that bound him as they raced to and fro over his helpless body, mandibles clicking together in an evil, chittering hiss. Thousands upon thousands of insects swarmed over and around him—searching, seeking—smelling the blood, sensing the fear. The men above spoke additional words, hurled more curses down upon his soul, but he did not hear what they said—his entire being was now focused with horror on the evil flood of life-stealing life that ebbed and flowed in the stone of the sarcophagus. And then one of the scarabs found an opening, pushed its armored body through the thin strips of linen, and the others followed…

His mangled scream of agony was cut off abruptly by the cold finality of stone hitting stone. The lid fell into place, cutting off light, cutting off sound, cutting off sanity. There was nothing but the dark, the cold, the pain, the hatred and the loss. There was nothing at all except the feel and the sound of scarabs as they chewed their way inside, living catalysts in the bitter, horrifying metamorphosis of living man into undead Creature…

Death was only the beginning.

* * *

The hoarse, guttural scream awakened her instantly, jolting her awake as the body of the man lying next to her shuddered and thrashed. He was bathed in sweat, struggling against invisible hands, locked in some hideous, private agony. Eyes tightly closed, jaw clamped shut, lips pulled back from gritted teeth, Imhotep writhed and twisted beside her, his desperate struggle only serving to twist the already ravaged blankets more tightly around his sweat-drenched body. Low, animal-like sounds emanated from his throat, and although she still hadn't managed to completely grasp the ancient language he spoke, Eliana could certainly make out the word "No!" shouted over and over, and the terrible, agonizing pleas for mercy.

She leaned over him, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him, lightly at first, and then, when that had no effect whatsoever, more and more roughly. "Imhotep!" she whispered frantically, running a palm over his sweat-damp forehead, trying to smooth away the anguish there, but he only fought her more as the nightmare refused to give way. Finally, she resorted to slapping him on the cheek. "Please, please, wake up!" He swung out an arm, barely missing her, not aware of anything but the horror being played out in his own mind, still caught deep within the terror of the dream.

Truly frightened now, unable to reach him, Eliana gave up on trying to shake him out of his dream or slap him into sensibility. Instead, she did the only thing she could think of—quickly moving closer, past his flailing, thrashing arms, she put her arms around him, pressing herself as close to him as she could. Almost on top of him now, trying to keep from being pushed away, she wrapped her arms tightly around him, whispering to him, pleading with him, trying to get her awkward tongue around the melodic phrasing of his native language, knowing on some instinctive level that the ancient words were the only ones that could reach him.

The words she used were nothing magical, mostly nonsensical expressions of comfort that one might use to calm a terrified child, but the combination of her soft voice, the words she spoke, and the feel of her body pressed against his somehow managed to reach far enough into his struggling subconscious to drag him away from the nightmare's evil grip. Slowly, it loosed its tentacles from deep within his mind, reluctantly pulling away, growling and hissing and spitting with malevolent evil. With a last malicious swipe, it was gone, fading back into the far reaches of his subconscious, waiting for some other opportunity to break free. And it would, it always did. Always, always it was there—ceaseless, ageless, eternal—waiting, biding its time, an indelible mark on his soul. It could be beaten back, but only a miracle could vanquish it completely. But for now, for tonight, it was gone.

Almost imperceptibly at first, then in a great shuddering sigh, his ceased his struggles, once more breathing deeply and evenly, and she felt the fever of fear seep from his body. "Imhotep," she whispered once more. "You are not alone. I am here with you." Her hands soothed the last of the tension from his face, her lips pressed against the damp skin of his sweat-slick brow. "Wake up, my love. Please. It was only a dream, just a dream…"

In a heartbeat, he relaxed in her embrace. His arms stole around her, hands sweeping up and over her shoulders and down her back to clasp her waist in a light, caressing hold. Still asleep, one hand crept up to cradle her nape, pulling her head down towards his, his warm breath fanning over her face, his lips a whisper away from hers. A gentle tug erased even that distance. Feather-light, he kissed her, testing the shape and feel of her mouth, almost as if he sought reassurance that she was really there, not just some by-product of his tormented subconscious. Once certain that this was indeed reality, not a dream, his lips grew harder, more demanding on hers. The nightmare receded, but the memories remained, and in his mind he sought the name of the most precious of those. A memory, a vision, a name…

"Anck-su-namun" he whispered, burying his face in the softness of her hair, inhaling its clean, sweet fragrance. His arms tightened around her, pulling her against him, molding the contours of her body to fit seamlessly with his. He was still half asleep, but the dregs of the feverish nightmare were fading away, the horror of the Hom Dai replaced in his slumbering mind with the comforting warmth of her presence. The dream faded; and yet reality could not manage to completely penetrate the fog of sleep. Somehow, someway, he knew she was back with him, and he would not question or wonder why. It was enough that she was here in his arms. His mind, his senses, were swamped in the feel, the scent, the taste of her; no painful memories intruded—she was all he knew, all he desired—and all he remembered was their love. "Anck-su-namun," he repeated, the name falling from his lips like a prayer as he pressed his lips to the curve of her shoulder. "I love you."

Eliana stiffened at his words, pulling away from him slightly, carefully searching his face to see if he was awake or still sleeping. She couldn't tell. Her small movement, though, had been enough to shake the last tendrils of sleep from him, and he stirred, his eyes opening, his lips curving into a sensual smile as his gaze roamed her face. The memories evaporated, the ancient name faded away, and all he saw was the living, breathing reality he held in his arms. And it, too, was enough. "Eliana." His voice was low, husky, and he pulled her back against him, not noticing her slight resistance when he pressed a deep, tender kiss to her lips, his beautiful, sensual mouth moving over hers with all the love and longing in his heart. "Eliana…"

Eliana blinked back her tears. He had recognized her, had said her name, had kissed her with desire and with passion. But nothing else, and her heart broke at the omission. No more words, especially not the ones she most wanted to hear. Those words were not for her, only for the other. Always the other; forever, eternally. She wanted to scream, she wanted to rage, but most of all, she wanted to weep and weep and weep—weep until there were no more tears. She did none of those. Instead, she held him in her arms, cradling his head to her breast, offering him comfort and giving him her love. After a few moments, his breathing evened out, and he was fast asleep once more, exhausted in both mind and body from the ravages of the nightmare.

Eliana lay there in his arms, held tightly, possessively…lovingly. She lay there and tried as hard as she could to not feel a perverse jealousy towards a woman long dead—and even more ironically, a woman she had_ been_. It made no sense at all, but the feeling itself was real, and heartbreaking, and bitter as gall. In that moment, she hated Anck-su-namun, hated Meela, hated what they had been, what they had done to this man. She hated their duplicity, their betrayal, the shallow, depthless, cowardly emotion they had called love. And she hated herself, too, because she realized that a part of her had lived in them, and _she_ had betrayed him as well.

It was a long while before she slept again, and when sleep did come, finally, it was fitful and restless and haunted with dreams and regrets and half-formed memories.

* * *

"I see you've made yourself at home, Bashir." The speaker walked up behind the Sudanese man, startling him into alertness. He straightened from the tree he had been leaning against and turned to face the man, who traced a quick gesture in the air, a silent communiqué designed as a coded greeting between two soldiers in the ongoing war against the infidels. Bashir returned the symbolic gesture and relaxed slightly. He knew this man's voice—they had talked before, although not often. But he had never before seen the man's face. He had no idea, really, who he was, other than that he was a high-ranking figure in the shadowy terrorist organization they both belonged to. His only information was that he had been sent here to remove Mousa from the scene, and then report to his new commander.

The shadows shifted, and the man stepped forward, moonlight falling on his face. Bashir's eyes widened; he sucked in a startled breath. So _this_ was his contact? Quickly, Bashir's face fell into its characteristic squinty-eyed smirk as he realized how truly fortunate they were. This was perfect—better than perfect. It was unbelievable, really.

"We have managed," he said, smiling at the man who had greeted him. "For a remote site, the accommodations are better than expected…"

"Don't get too comfortable," the man replied. "We won't be here that long. Things are moving too quickly—we need to act soon. Within days, in fact."

Bashir nodded, pleased. He was a man of action, and didn't like to wait. "Good. That is welcome news."

"I thought you would be pleased," said the man, his lips forming a leering grin. "We cannot speak at length now—I will arrange a meeting tomorrow, and we can converse at length. Our plans need to be finalized quickly—there is much at stake, and this operation is…delicate."

"Understood," Bashir assured him. "I will wait for word, then."

The man nodded and moved back into the darkness. Bashir followed his lead, slinking back towards the tent he had usurped from the unfortunate Mousa. In moments, they were both gone, and all that remained in the small clearing was the echoing silence and the shadows of deep midnight.


	20. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

_I shall not fall under flashing knives. I shall not burn up in the cauldron. I know the names of the scorpions and they are these: anger, bitterness and doubt. _

_I have seen the face of evil—one with sharp teeth like a ravaging dog that feasts upon corpses, that swallows hearts, that would claim for itself whatever it touched: the perfume of hibiscus, the heart of a lover, the light of its days, the thoughts and passions of others._

_What I hate is ignorance, smallness of imagination, the eye that sees no farther than its own lashes. All things are possible. When we speak in anger, anger will be our truth. When we speak in love and live by love, truth in love will be our comfort. Who you are is limited only by who you think you are. I am the word before its utterance. I am thought and desire. Things are possible—joy and sorrow, men and women, children. Someday I'll imagine myself a different man, build bone and make flesh around him. I am with you but a moment for an eternity. I am the name of everything._

_Darkness gives way to light, dumbness to speech, confusion to understanding._

_-- Excerpts from "Triumph Over Darkness", "Becoming the Child" and "The Return", __Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

His hand fell on her shoulder, a warm, comforting weight. "You okay?"

Callie's head swiveled towards, him her huge brown eyes darkened with sadness. A wobbly smile curved her lips. "Yes, I suppose I am."

Once more, dawn broke over Ahm Shere. From where she sat, on a smooth block of golden stone, perhaps ten meters up the front-facing side of the monolith, Callie had a perfect view as the sun rose over the tree line to the east. Unable to sleep, she had come here an hour ago, hoping that the birth of a new day would restore her spirit enough to see this job through to the end.

Lowering himself to sit beside her on the slab of stone, Connelly twitched a golden brown eyebrow at her, a mischievous twinkle lighting his eyes. "Bernstein know you're playing on his artifact?"

Her smile, this time, was less forced. "No." She hadn't bothered to tell anyone where she was going this early in the morning, and she certainly hadn't stopped to ask anyone's permission. If Bernstein had a problem with her climbing on the pyramid, that was his problem. At this point, she really didn't care. With a sigh, she went back to staring at the rose- and lavender-tinged sky to the east.

Connelly leaned back on his elbows, sprawling comfortably on their rocky perch. The glory of the rising sun seemed lost on him, as he continued to stare at her, an impish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Don't worry, Doc. I won't tell on you."

She actually laughed at that, his irrepressible charm managing to create the shift in her mood that the majesty of the setting had not. How Connelly had managed to find her here, or why he had bothered to, she hadn't a clue. But surprisingly, his arrival wasn't the intrusion she would have expected it to be—that it _would_ have been, just a day ago—instead, she found herself glad that he was there with her, glad that she was no longer alone, glad that it was _he_ who had disturbed her unhappy solitude. And that last was the most remarkable revelation of all.

They sat in companionable silence as the sun rose higher, the sky brightened, and the last of the stars faded away. Finally, taking a gamble, Connelly raised an arm to her shoulders, exerting a gentle pressure to pull her back against him. She stiffened at first—then, with a sigh, sank back to settle into the curve of his shoulder. She hadn't realized how cold she was, until she felt his heat begin to seep through the thin sweater she wore, warming her skin, bringing her wordless comfort.

"You wanna talk about it?" His eyes were warm on hers, surprisingly gentle, filled with a tender sympathy that worked its way past the barriers she had erected against him, heading with uncanny accuracy towards her heart.

Sadly, she shook her head. "Talking isn't going to accomplish much." Words could never turn back the clock, erase their failure, or give Eric his life back.

"Might make you feel better," he said, absently toying with a dark brown strand of her hair, "and that's worth something."

Callie reached up, pulling the strand of hair from his fingers and sitting rigidly upright again. Briefly, anger flashed diamond-bright in her eyes, and her foul mood came rushing back, eager to darken her spirits again. "Why should I feel better? Eric died; don't you know that?" She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her forehead in her hands. "_My_ feelings are completely irrelevant right now."

Her posture was completely off-putting, the invisible barriers standing dauntingly upright once more, but Connelly had never been one to let someone else's stubbornness get in his way. His large, warm hand found her back, moving gently over the taut muscles of her shoulders and spine. He moved instinctively, the slow, soothing massage a balm to her, bringing warmth and relief in its wake. His voice was a low, reassuring murmur. "You did the best you could, Doc, working with what you had. Sometimes that's all we can do, and it still isn't enough. Sometimes the deck is just stacked against us."

He could feel her resistance crumbling, the stubbornness giving way to pure grief, and once more, he pulled her back against him, putting both arms around her when she turned her face into his shoulder, stifling a sob. His voice dropped another octave, becoming nothing more than a soothing whisper against her hair. For once, Callie's instincts prevailed over her sense of propriety, and she didn't question the rightness of being held in a stranger's arms—even a stranger that she didn't particularly like very much. Right now, Matt Connelly's arms _felt_ like the right place to be, and she was desperate for the warmth and comfort he offered. Her arms crept around his waist, and with another muffled sob, she gave herself over to the sheer misery of the moment.

Connelly closed his eyes and held her tightly, wondering at the surge of protectiveness that washed over him. It didn't make sense that he should feel so strongly about a woman he had just met—one that he found just as annoying as she was beautiful—but at that moment, he would have gladly done anything just to bring the spark of life and fire back into her eyes. Somewhat desperately, he reminded himself that he needed to remain objective about everyone and everything at this site, or risk jeopardizing his mission, but his heart was having none of it—objectivity went out the window, and along with it, he feared, a good portion of his common sense, as well.

With a sigh, he leaned back against the golden stone of the pyramid, and let her cry it out. There would be time later for good sense and objectivity and rational thought. For now, he was content to simply sit there and hold her. And then his innate honesty got the better of him, and with an inward grimace, he chastised himself. _Content, my ass_. _Who am I trying to kid? _He was happy as hell to hold her.

* * *

Imhotep awoke slowly, to the feel of Eliana's head resting on his shoulder, her hand splayed out over his chest. He could sense the deep, even rhythm of her breathing; feel the soft touch of her skin against his. A stray reddish brown curl tickled his nose and he blew it away with a smile, lifting his hand to gently smooth back the wild tangle of her hair. Morning light filtered in from outside and warmed the small interior of the tent, chasing away the last shadows of night. 

Still asleep, Eliana moaned softly and pressed closer to him, curling up against his side and nestling her head deeper into the curve of his shoulder. He put both arms around her and drew her close, rubbing his cheek over the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. For the first time in countless centuries, Imhotep felt a sense of bone-deep peace, the utter rightness of the moment settling over him like a blessing from the gods.

His hand stroked her hair, and he closed his eyes as a surge of emotion flooded him. How had he ever thought he could close his heart to her? She was as much a part of him as his blood, his bones, his soul. They were bound together forever, eternally, and he had been a fool to think that a simple act of will could sever those bonds. No matter that, in a moment of fear, she had betrayed him—he forgave her wholly, absolutely, gladly. No matter that she was no longer Anck-su-namun, the woman he had known and loved—she was Eliana now, and Anck-su-namun was still a part of who she was, who she had been, and he loved them both. Indeed, he was unable, anymore, to recognize where one ended and the other began—their souls were identical, immortal, unchanging, and though the outward appearance had changed, the life force within was one and the same. True enough, the _ba_ was different—Eliana was outwardly restrained, her inner passions well concealed by a carefully constructed mask of composure, where Anck-su-namun had been openly tempestuous, her fiery intensity plainly visible to all. Eliana was the depthless calm of a hidden pool, Anck-su-namun the rushing torrent of a mighty falls; Eliana was the warm light of day, Anck-su-namun the hot darkness of night. But down deep, where it mattered, they were the same. _She_ was the same. And he loved her.

A smile curved his lips as his mind accepted what his heart already knew, and he ran his hand down the gentle curve of her waist, the soft flare of her hip. Awakening with her in his arms was an experience too precious for words—even in the old days, it was a luxury they could seldom indulge; Seti's hated presence and the watchful eyes of his Med Jai guard kept their assignations heartbreakingly brief. A momentary wistfulness clouded Imhotep's eyes as he once more brushed a stray tendril of hair away from her face and allowed himself to wonder if this time, in this place, it could be different.

Perhaps in this lifetime they could have what they had missed in the other—a union sanctioned by the gods and by men; a lifetime to spend together; a home, a family, children. His hand curved over the soft flesh of her abdomen and he froze, suddenly realizing with a horrified sense of amazement that the last could already have been accomplished. Eliana was mortal, and according to the great god, Imhotep was as well. She had been innocent before their first joining, and he had not even stopped to think about the consequences of their actions, let alone take any precautions to avoid them.

The initial dismay slowly gave way to a growing sense of wonder. The possibility of a child had never even crossed his mind, so accustomed was he to thinking of himself as an inhuman monster; but now that the idea had entered his consciousness it took hold and refused to be brushed aside. What if their joining had created a new life? What if, even now, his seed was taking root in her body, creating life from nothingness, hope from despair, a blessing from a curse? _What if…_

He dashed away the moisture from his eyes, chastising himself for succumbing to such foolish whimsy. He should be hoping against hope that a child had _not_ resulted from this folly, not indulging in wasted dreams of the gods restoring what had been taken from him—from them—so many centuries ago. There was no room in this chaos for a child—there was no room, even, for hope of a future for the two of them. The only hope that could exist now was for an end to all of this—an end that would be achieved by him finding a cure, and finding death.

But even so, Amun-Re had said there would be a choice. _And if there was a child…_

His hand rested on the taut flatness of her stomach, long fingers spread out over the smoothly tanned flesh, as though he could somehow discern the presence or absence of life by touch alone. Slowly, his eyes swept over her, until they came to rest on her face, now relaxed and peaceful in sleep. Carefully, he shifted, so that he was lying on his side, facing her. His hand lifted, cupping the curve of her face, thumb caressing the ridge of her cheekbone. With exquisite tenderness, he leaned towards her, pressing a kiss to her forehead, to each eyelid, to the tip of her nose, and finally, with the merest whisper of a touch, to her lips.

"Eliana." A fraction of a centimeter separated them when he breathed her name, his voice a low, soft murmur, his breath a rush of warmth over her face. "Dawn has come and gone, and with it a good portion of the morning." As he spoke, he nuzzled her, punctuating each phrase with a kiss, his mouth moving over the soft skin of her cheeks, her lips. "It is time to awaken. We must talk."

"Mmmm." She twisted in his arms, ignoring his persistence in attempting to awaken her, not wanting to release her grip on sleep just yet. "No, no. Don't want to." She had only drifted off into a sound sleep just before dawn—before that, she had tossed and turned, unable to rest, still hurt, still haunted by specters of the past. She pressed both palms against his chest, levering him away from her. Her eyes opened momentarily before slamming shut again, and her voice was sharp with annoyance. "Stop it!"

He chuckled, the corner of his mouth curving down into the roguishly appealing grin he could have patented, so uniquely charming was it. He pulled her back into his arms, this time whispering against her ear, "Are you always this ill-tempered in the morning?"

She fought the shudder of pleasure that coiled through her at the feel of his breath on her neck, turning in his arms so that her back was to him. Opening her eyes at last, she saw from the angle of light filtering through the nylon walls and ceiling that it was indeed very late. She stifled a groan, attempting to pull away from him and sit up, but his arms tightened around her, refusing to let her escape.

"Eliana, wait. We must speak of something." The teasing note had left his voice; all that colored the musical baritone now was a deep somberness.

Her heart constricted, and she closed her eyes once more, unwillingly reveling in the feel of being in his arms. Almost of their own volition, his hands caressed her, moving slowly over the soft curves and valleys of her body, a gentle heat that threatened to melt her resolve. Purposely, she allowed annoyance to seep into her voice. "What do we have to talk about, Imhotep?"

His lips moved over the curve of her shoulder, and before she could stop it, an involuntary shudder revealed her true feelings. Irritated with herself more than with him, she jerked away and held herself rigid in his arms. With a sigh, he began, his hands reflexively moving to curve over her abdomen, the gesture eloquent in its poignant protectiveness. "Have you considered what may result from our actions, Eliana?"

His voice was soft to her ears, gentle; but the implied meaning of his words combined with the unmistakable significance of the position of his hands on her body cut through her like a shaft of pure ice, the implication both obvious and appalling. She went cold all over, as her mind absorbed the ramifications of what he alluded to. _Oh, god…_

Feverishly, Eliana struggled through a quick mental calculation, working against a brain gone sluggish with shock. Her breath came a bit easier when she realized that although it was possible, a pregnancy was unlikely, given the timing. On the heels of the initial relief, though, came an uninvited, unwelcome sense of acute loss. _What in the name of god was she thinking,_ she berated herself furiously, _that she should feel loss over a child that never was, that never would be? _And yet, the sorrow was there, as real as the rest of this madness.

Nearly inaudible, her voice hoarse with repressed emotion, she hastened to refute the possibility. "Don't worry, Imhotep. It didn't happen. The timing is all wrong."

She felt him smile against her hair, and his voice, when he spoke, was gentle, as were the arms that continued to hold her. "Many a child has been born, Eliana, the product of an ill-timed fate." His anxiety she could have accepted; his anger would have been understandable. This tenderness, though, this gentle concern, was her undoing, and she choked back a sob, pulling completely away from him and sitting up, the blanket clutched to her chest.

"No!" She turned angry eyes his way, daring him to disagree. "There is no child, there will be none. There is nothing for you to worry about—no need for your concern!"

He levered himself up on one elbow, his brow creasing into an irritated frown. "No need for my concern?" Sarcastic disbelief colored the rich timbre of his voice. "We are talking about the possibility of a child, and you say there is no need for my _concern_?"

She swung her head away again, unwilling to let him see the tears glittering in her eyes. Her hair formed a living curtain, shadowing her face from him, keeping her secrets. "There is no child. Even if there was, you are free to go. I would never use a child to hold you here against your will…"

Slowly, carefully, every movement reflecting steely control, Imhotep sat upright, the blanket falling away unheeded, revealing the hard planes and contours of his body. His hands on her shoulders were a study in relentless gentleness, velvet over iron, as he turned her to face him. Nothing revealed his inner feelings save a slight narrowing of his eyes and the merest hint of a muscle twitching near his mouth. "Eliana. Look at me."

Stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes, she gripped the blanket even tighter, tipped her head down even more. His fingers gripped her chin, the long fingers, graceful as any artist's, now an inexorable, unyielding force as he compelled her to raise her head and meet his eyes. Although she knew he would never harm her, Eliana was afraid, for she knew she had triggered some deeply held rage. The melodic pitch of his voice held a hardness now, an uncompromising ruthlessness that hinted at the true depth of his anger.

"After all I have told you, everything you know of our shared past," he questioned, his voice deceptively soft, deliberately calm, "you would truly expect me to walk away from another child?"

She sucked in a shallow breath that seemed to catch in her lungs. Too late, she remembered what he had shared with her about their past, the tragedy that had prodded them along the first steps of this terrible, tragic path. Too late, she remembered his pain, the devastation in his voice as he recounted the loss of that tiny soul, gone now for so many centuries.

"No," she whispered, closing her eyes, unable to meet the hard light in his. "I know you wouldn't walk away." Fighting against everything in her, every instinct that told her to throw herself into his arms and beg him to stay with her, forgive her, try to love her again, she steeled herself, her resolve returning and wresting control from her fickle heart. He had been right all along—she knew it now. There was too much history between them; too much betrayal. She was poison to him—death. She had brought him nothing but misery and damnation, heartache and betrayal, and the least she could do was to get out of his life now, once and for all, and hope that he could somehow find some sort of peace, if not here, then in the afterlife. _But god, how it hurt!_

She rose to her feet, slightly unsteady, and, still wrapped in the blanket, using it as a sorely inadequate shield for a ridiculously tardy sense of modesty, she began to dress in the clothes she'd worn yesterday, jerking them on carelessly, heedlessly, wanting only to escape from the suddenly airless confines of the tent and the painful proximity to him as quickly as she could.

He remained seated, watching her as she pulled and tugged at her clothing, his unblinking regard resolute, implacable. Finally, unable to remain silent any longer, his voice spanned the void between them, still quiet, but powerful in its very softness. "Eliana, why are you doing this? What has happened?"

She paused, balancing precariously on one foot, and dared to glance up at him. Behind the hardness in his eyes, she could see the pain, the centuries-old grief. She'd done it again—carelessly, unthinkingly brought him more sorrow. Why should she expect anything to be different now? She was doomed to give him nothing but misery, nothing but suffering. In this lifetime, as in those past, _she_ was his curse, just as surely as was the Hom Dai.

Abandoning the futile struggle with her shoes, she left them unlaced, standing on both feet now, half turned away from him. Once again, she let her hair fall forward to shield her expression from his intent regard while she gathered her thoughts. _This had to end_. She could not let it go on any longer. She would not.

_But how?_ She knew that on some level, he had feelings for her. Certainly he had feelings for who she had been. Without a doubt, he would never abandon a child. The knots in this skein were getting tighter and tighter, more and more hopelessly tangled. She knew that his feelings could not be spared entirely; there was no way out of this without hurting him on some level.

But she knew full well that anger was a powerful remedy for hurt, and if she could somehow manage to cast herself as the villain, he could latch onto the anger he already felt towards her other incarnations and use it to bolster his determination to complete the task, end the curse, find peace at last. It was what he had continually said he wanted; it was the one desire he had made perfectly clear, from the very beginning. It was the last, best gift she could give him—a future free of the contamination of her presence. Perhaps in some way, it would make up for the destruction she had wrought before.

The next few minutes would be her test. If she could manage to deliver her lies smoothly, convincingly, he would hate her, and thus be free of her at last. She had always been a poor liar, but never had she been so motivated. She loved him; if it took everything in her, she would somehow manage to perjure herself sufficiently that any feelings he might have for her would quickly turn to loathing. Dredging up every ounce of fortitude in her possession, she calmed herself and managed to put on a mask of cool indifference.

Imhotep watched her as she turned, scanning her face and seeing the coldness there. "Eliana?"

Digging her nails into her palms until she thought she drew blood, Eliana maintained the façade. "This was a mistake, Imhotep. You were right all along. I realize that now. The past can never be undone, nor would I wish it to be. I have a good life here; I am happy, at peace. Perhaps you can do this thing you say you must do, and find peace as well. I wish you luck." By accident, she managed to strike the perfect tone of bland indifference.

Imhotep stood, ignoring his nakedness as the blanket fell completely away, eyes beginning to ignite. He took a step towards her. "Eliana, _what_ are you talking about?"

Deliberately, she made her face, her voice, go colder still. "This," she said, extending her arm in a sweeping gesture that took in the both of them, their scattered clothes, the rumpled blankets. "Us." She began to shake from the effort it took to maintain the deliberate lie, hoping against hope that he wouldn't see the trembling in her hands, her voice. She had to finish this quickly, before she fell apart in front of him. "I want this to end now. It was a mistake, our being together like this, and it won't happen again. And please don't worry—I assure you, there will be no child."

His eyes hardened, grew dangerously cold. "You are certain of that, Eliana?"

"Of course I'm certain," she said, injecting a note of casual viciousness into her tone. "Even if I was wrong, and this…mistake…did result in a pregnancy; well, nothing is permanent." Her heart broke to utter the final lie, for if fate had seen fit to give her his child, she would have cherished it beyond life itself. "Surely even in your day, they had ways of ending things that should never have begun."

His hand shot out, gripping her upper arm in a vise-like hold. His eyes burned into hers, the fury in them soul-deep and damning. "You are saying you would deliberately end a pregnancy, Eliana?" His voice dropped an octave, laced with a dangerous, icy calm. "You would do yourself what we, together, killed Seti for doing? You would destroy our child?"

Her silence condemned her. With eyes that were fever-bright, green as emeralds, she stared wordlessly at his hand on her arm. He held her tightly, but the pain of his grip was nothing compared to the pain in her heart. The bruise he would leave on her skin would heal, in time—the rending tear she was inflicting on herself would never mend. Slowly, as if just now realizing how tightly he clutched her, he dropped his eyes to her arm also, and released his grip on her, watching as the blood flooded back into the white marks his fingers had left behind, turning them an angry red.

When he lifted his eyes to hers again, she saw nothing in the golden brown depths but a cold emptiness that pierced her soul. Turning, she opened the flap of the tent, calling over her shoulder as she left, "I'm going to find my father. I'll be away for a while." As an afterthought, she added, "Do me a favor, please. Be gone by the time I get back."

He said nothing, just watched as she walked out the door and disappeared into the daylight. Finally, the thin veneer of anger crumbled, the pretense of coldness faded away, and a stunned anguish replaced them both. In three thousand years, Imhotep had known his share of suffering, endured what would have destroyed most men. It had been nothing compared to this. He groaned in agony and sank to his knees, lowering his head into his hands as the pain of this last, worst betrayal lanced through him, mockingly turning the Hom Dai into a triviality.

Outside, once she had managed to calmly walk until the tent was no longer in sight, Eliana ran as far and as fast as she could, stopping only when she could go no further. Finally, she allowed the tears to come—and they did, running down her face in a torrent as she leaned back against the hard trunk of a tree, hugging her arms around herself and sobbing miserably.

* * *

"So it's extinct?" Callie sipped her lukewarm coffee, lifting her eyebrows in question and peering across the table as Connelly, seated across the table from her, lounged back on his chair in his habitually unconstrained manner. 

"_Really_ extinct. Really, _really_ extinct." Connelly's blue gaze was level, serious, even though his words were flippant, as usual. "As in, this plant hasn't been around since Jesus was in diapers."

"But that makes no sense," she puzzled, tapping one blunt, neatly trimmed fingernail against the chipped ceramic mug. "How could he say he'd _used_ this plant before, if it hasn't even _existed_ for two thousand years?"

"That's the question of the millennium, isn't it?" Connelly agreed, tipping his chair back down onto all four legs and reaching across the table to grab an apple. Callie watched as he bit into it, her gaze distracted, but aware enough to notice how his large hand dwarfed the red globe of the apple, how the fruit's natural juices moistened his lips, and how the movement of his mouth while he chewed drew her eye to the strong line of his jaw and from there down the sinewy strength of his neck to the solid breadth of his shoulders. There was no denying the man's sheer physical attractiveness, and Callie finally admitted to herself that she was drawn to him more than she had ever been drawn to another man in her life.

And apart from that, she was still grateful to him for spending the time, early this morning, to snap her out of the mood she'd fallen into. Getting herself dragged into a pit of melancholy so deep that she couldn't escape it would accomplish nothing, and there was still Doug to think of—she wasn't ready to forfeit that battle, yet. Matt had sat with her for a solid hour, until the sun was high in the sky and the archaeological shantytown surrounding the pyramid had come back to life, bustling with the busyness of morning. He had been kind, and understanding, and surprisingly thoughtful—not at all his usual brash, insouciant self. It had made her wonder what other secrets he hid, that he could keep this deeper, more serious side of himself so well-concealed.

But this tangent she was on was accomplishing nothing; her wandering thoughts were leading her down paths better left untrod, and there was still this mystery to solve. She dragged her attention back to the matter at hand, ignoring the speculative gleam in his eyes as he watched the play of emotions on her face. "Mr. Connelly…"

"Matt. It's Matt, okay?" A note of teasing crept into his voice. "I'd like to think that you know me well enough by now to lay off the formality a little bit."

She blushed and stammered. "I suppose so…" She cleared her throat, and although her brow was knit into a slight frown, she tried out the name, testing the feel of it as it formed on her lips and tongue. "Matt." A hesitant smile bowed her mouth, and she added. "You must call me Callie, then."

"Nah," he said, shaking his head. His eyes danced with an inner merriment. "I think I'll stick to Doc."

She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable with the teasing, uneasy over the subtle undercurrent of intimacy that was beginning to form between them. It was almost as though something long dormant was slowly awakening, unfolding like the new leaves of a tree in springtime. Again, she cleared her throat. "Um, Matt…."

"Yes, Doc?" He sounded too happy, too pleased with himself. She shot him a look; saw the trace of devilment in his eyes.

_The cad!_ He was _enjoying_ her discomfort, she was certain of it! Annoyance added an edge to her voice. "So how did he explain this discrepancy?"

Immediately, he was all business, as though what had just passed between them had never happened. "He didn't. I didn't ask him." He took another bite of the apple, leaning back on the chair once more.

"Why not? That seems like the most logical thing to do…"

"Well, for one thing, I haven't seen him since then." He chewed slowly as he spoke, hesitating before he spoke further. "For another, I don't think he'd give me a straight answer, anyway."

"Why do you say that?" She was genuinely puzzled. For all that the Egyptian man was brooding, and intense, and slightly intimidating, he hadn't struck her as being particularly dishonest.

Connelly swallowed the last of the fruit and tossed the core at the box containing garbage, missing his target by a good margin. "I hope you have better aim when taking photos than you do while playing basketball," she commented, raising an eyebrow as he made a rueful face at her.

"A guy's gotta have at least one flaw," he teased, raising a hand as she opened her mouth to expand on the potential list. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't do it—my fragile ego couldn't take the onslaught. Have pity on me, okay?"

She grinned at him. "I doubt that your ego is anywhere near what could be called fragile, Mister…" He lifted an eyebrow, and she corrected herself. "…Matt."

Despite her calm, even-tempered demeanor, Callie could be as tenacious as a bulldog, when necessary. "So, Matt, why do you think he'd lie to you?"

"I didn't say he'd lie, necessarily," he amended. "I just don't think I'd get the whole truth from him. He seems to me like someone who's keeping a few secrets. For that matter, so does his girlfriend, and that Bay character."

"His girlfriend?" Callie was confused. _Who on earth could that be?_ As far as she knew, apart from the female lab technicians, the only other woman in the camp was Professor Bernstein's daughter. "You don't mean Eliana?"

"Who else?" Connelly asked, as though surprised she would even have to ask. "Haven't you seen the way those two look at each other? Seems pretty obvious that there's something going on there…"

"Actually, I _hadn't_ noticed," she murmured, for some reason feeling silly for having asked in the first place. She suddenly felt very young, and a bit naïve, and incredibly out of her element. Quickly, she changed the subject. "And what about Ardeth Bay? What makes you think he's not what he seems?"

"In his case, it's just a feeling, more than anything." Matt paused, realizing for the first time that he could be seriously compromising his case by talking so openly with her. But there was something about her that made him _want_ to confide in her, trust her, share his thoughts, his concerns, his dreams… _Knock it off, Connelly!_ With an inward shake of his head, he wondered why he had to continually remind himself to stay on guard whenever he was near her. She was _very_ bad for his professional indifference.

"So you distrust all three of them, is that it? Think they're hiding something?" He shrugged, not willing to discuss it any further, despite the fact that he instinctively trusted her. Noting his silence, she went on. "You think they're keeping some mutual secret? Or that each of them has secrets of their own?"

"Dunno." Again, he shrugged. "Maybe a little of both." _Time to end this conversation, before he got himself in trouble. _"But it doesn't really matter, anyway—the long and the short of it is that the plant's not around anymore, so it's of no use to him, or you, or Doug."

"You're right, of course. If the plant no longer exists, we'll have to help Doug in some other way." She was unwilling, though, to completely give up on the previous conversational thread. "But he seemed so _certain_ that he had used the plant before…"

"Go figure." Matt dismissed the topic succinctly, and although she looked at him quizzically, Callie let it drop.

"Speaking of Doug," she said, standing up, "I should go and have a look at him, see how he's doing."

"S'okay, Doc. No worries here—I'll find something to do while you're away." The twinkle was back in his eye again, as the conversation moved back into more comfortable territory.

She rolled her eyes as she left, shaking her head at his irrepressible foolishness, but wearing a grin nonetheless.

* * *

At the end of the corridor, the lights from the infirmary glowed a stark bluish white, and a strong antiseptic smell infused the air, hanging heavy in the cool dryness of the hallway. Although it was bright morning outdoors, time had no meaning in here, the thick, windowless stone walls effectively cutting off contact with the world outside. Morning, noon, evening, dead of night—it could have been any of those; and for those inside, it made no difference. 

Imhotep paced down the corridor, his face gaunt, expressionless. From the stern set of his countenance, he could have been a carved effigy come to life, granted animation and movement, but given no soul. The only clue to his true state of emotions lay in the dark, liquid depths of his eyes, where the desolation was a palpable, living thing. His secret was safe, however, since the aura surrounding him formed a barrier of such forbidding aloneness that only the most brave—or most foolhardy—of souls would dare try breaching it.

Nearing the door, Imhotep slowed, becoming cautious, alert, moving with a quiet stealth into the arched opening. Each time he had come here before, he had had to face a phalanx of medical personnel—nurses, technicians—grim-faced despots who took such pride in guarding their territory that they would have done well in days past as members of Seti's royal guard. Especially now, since Robillard had banned him from the area, Imhotep had to take care—a single misstep now could be the difference between his success or his failure in bringing an end to Doug's illness—and subsequently, his own curse.

But for once today, fate had smiled on him—the room was echoingly vacant, only the beeping monitors that surrounded Doug showing any sign of vitality. Doug himself lay quietly on the narrow cot in the isolation bubble, IV tubes pumping in fluids and antibiotics to keep him hydrated and to help fight off the bacterial infections that were a constant threat because of the open sores left by the rash on his skin. Additional equipment continuously monitored his blood pressure, heart rate, blood oxygen levels—providing a constant stream of useful information for his caregivers. Once more, Imhotep glanced around the room—it really _was_ empty. Where the nurses and technicians had gone, Imhotep had no idea—he was simply grateful to have a few minutes alone with Doug.

Eschewing the dubious protection of the mask and gloves, he pushed aside the plastic sheeting, entering the contaminated air inside Doug's "room." The sick man's eyes sought him out immediately—although he seemed almost too weak to move his head, Doug's eyes were alive and aware and very, very frightened. While he had never fallen prey to this particular disease, Imhotep was unfortunately _very_ aware of how it felt to be trapped inside a body that was being eaten alive from the inside out, and although scarabs were a more obvious predator than this virus, and a bit less fastidious in their manner of attack, the end result appeared to be almost one and the same—the blood, the pain, and eventually, the death. He could well imagine the fear that Doug must be feeling.

The language barrier was a huge, unfortunate obstacle in this situation. Doug spoke English, German and a smattering of French; Imhotep's only language, apart from the ones that had been dead for millennia, was Hebrew. Still, some languages were universal, and the smile that Imhotep gave Doug was meant to convey reassurance, comfort, and at least some degree of hope. Feebly, Doug smiled in return. He knew Imhotep from the priest's previous visits with Callie, and the fact that the tall Egyptian was not covered from head to foot in layer upon layer of protective garb made Doug feel more human, less like a writhing sack of virus waiting to spring a leak. But still, he _knew_ how contagious he was, and how deadly the virus, and he gestured weakly at Imhotep, managing to convey his concern over the priest's lack of protection.

Imhotep dismissed his distress with a wave of his hand, a shake of his head. He truly _wasn't_ concerned over a possible exposure—whatever their motivation, the gods had seen fit to protect him from this disease in the past, and he had no reason to believe that the situation had changed now. And treating an ill person with distance and fear was a mistake, Imhotep knew—treating them as though they themselves were the plague more often than not severed their only link to the outside world, making them retreat within themselves and become even more vulnerable to the ravages of the disease. Establishing a connection, a shared bond of humanity, mortality, was sometimes the only thing that served to tether the sufferer to this world—and was sometimes a strong enough bond to give them the will to fight, and to persevere.

Bending over the cot, ignoring the incessant bleat of the monitors, Imhotep pressed two fingers to the side of Doug's neck, feeling his pulse. It was steady, but slightly faster than yesterday, and this worried Imhotep—a man's heart should not have to beat so fast to pump life through his body. Callie had explained what the various tubes and fluids were for, and as Imhotep checked the mucous membranes of Doug's mouth and eyes, he saw that the steady hydration seemed to be helping. The virus was doing its awful, insidious work—the star-like rash was spreading, the white of Doug's eyes bore a slight reddish tinge—but Doug was failing with less horrifying rapidity than had Eric. Still, even with the supportive care, there was little time left for them to find a cure.

Through a series of gestures alone, Imhotep somehow managed to convey his question to Doug: How did he feel? Weakly, Doug shook his head and made a face, clutching at first at his stomach and then at his mouth—for any culture, an effective pantomime to convey the concept of acute nausea. Imhotep frowned. This was a sign he knew to be wary of—when people stricken with this disease began to vomit, it was an indication that the virus had gone to work on the stomach and intestines.

Carefully, he lowered the sheet covering Doug's midsection and placed his hands on the young man's stomach, pressing down gently. It was somewhat distended, and taut, the skin over the abdomen hard from some internal pressure, mostly likely a steady seepage of blood from his organs. This was not good, not good at all—even though Doug's outward symptoms were less acute than Eric's had been, it appeared that the internal damage was continuing to progress as expected.

Slowly, Imhotep raised his eyes to Doug's, carefully veiling his expression from the pleadingly hopeful gaze the young man gave him. Imhotep's smile was an attempt to reassure, as he pulled the sheet back up over Doug's chest. There was nothing to be done now, at least not physically—nothing save watch and pray. Although he knew Doug could not understand him, he spoke to the young man in his native tongue, the ancient language sounding a strange counterpoint to the mechanical beeps and clicks of the modern equipment that surrounded them.

"Rest, and conserve your strength for the battle ahead." As he spoke, Imhotep withdrew a small vial from his pocket. Before coming to the infirmary this morning, he had visited Sabir's supply tent, and, with the cook's permission, helped himself to a variety of spices and other foodstuffs. The mixture in the vial would be considered strange, by modern standards—three measures of celery seed, three measures of dill seed, both immersed in honey and ground together, then mixed with beer and wine—but in ancient days, it had served as a tonic for a variety of malignant diseases. Imhotep had little hope that it would be effective—in his day, the disease had not responded to this particular tonic, but there was precious little left to try, so he would at least make the attempt.

Smiling again at Doug's puzzled look, Imhotep uncorked the vial and poured a small portion of the mixture out onto the palm of his hand. Dipping a finger into the thickish concoction, he moved his hand to Doug's forehead. Alarmed, the young man raised his own hand, grabbing the priest's wrist with a surprising strength. His voice was a feeble croak.

"Hey—you're not giving up on me, are you?" The pinkish whites of his eyes were clearly visible around the brown irises. "This isn't last rites or something, is it?"

Imhotep couldn't understand a word of what Doug said, but he could see the fright in the young man's eyes. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he gripped it reassuringly, shaking his head. "This is a simple incantation of healing—there is no cause for alarm."

Although the words were gibberish to him, something in the priest's tone soothed Doug, and he relaxed, laying back and closing his eyes as Imhotep proceeded to trace out the healing glyphs and symbols on his forehead, cheeks and palms, before placing the vial near the sick man's lips and encouraging him to take a few drops into his mouth. Although the taste was strange, Doug managed a few weak sips, and then fell back against the pillow with a sigh, closing his eyes once more.

Corking the vial once more, and placing it back in his pocket, Imhotep laid one hand on Doug's head, the other on his upper abdomen. Centering himself, calling on the old gods, Imhotep closed his eyes and tipped his head back, focusing his mind on the arcane paths of power and using himself as a conduit between them and the body of the man before him. Minutes later, the connection complete, he began the words to the ancient rite, his voice low, resonant, rich with the power and sorcery of the old ways.

"_Osphe, Osphe, Osphe, Yosphe, Yosphe, Yosphe,_

_Bibiou, Bibiou, Bibiou,_

_Yasabaoth, the one who rules over the four corners of the world,_

_In whatever I want—I, Imhotep, servant of Osiris—I summon you_

_Now, now, at once, at once!_

_Voice of winds when there are no winds,_

_Voice of waves when there are no waves,_

_Voice of Amun, the three deities._

_Anousph, Anousph, Anousph, Anousph, Anousph,_

_Anousph, Anousph, Ibiach,_

_Hold back the blood in every member of Doug, child of Re._

_Heal him with your power,_

_Your goodness, your mercy._

_Give him strength, give him rest,_

_Give him health, give him peace at the last._

_Greetings to the sun,_

_Greetings to those who are with you,_

_Greetings from the one who is yours."_

Imhotep's voice remained strong, laced with a potent energy, a powerful magic, throughout the incantation. Reaching the end of the spell, the words trailed off, and he fell silent, as he felt the power fade from the air around him. Slowly he lifted his head and opened his eyes, taking in the quiet pallor of Doug's now-still features. _Had the spell had no effect at all?_ With a sigh, Imhotep straightened the blanket once more and turned to leave.

With a sudden jackknifing motion, Doug spasmed, his back arching, his head lolling backwards and his eyes rolling back in his head. Just as suddenly, he reversed his position, curving in on himself and grabbing at his stomach in agony. The paroxysm went on for an eternity, becoming more and more extreme with each endless second that passed.

Alarmed, for the ritual should not have produced such a drastic response, Imhotep leaned over the writhing man, desperately trying to determine what was wrong. Finally, with an almost inhuman strength, Doug sat straight up, clutching his stomach and looking at the priest with wide, frightened eyes, reaching out a hand to him before his face contorted into an expression of intense pain. Doubling over, his back contorted again, as he retched, the contents of his stomach bubbling up from his throat in a wet gurgle that spewed vomit and the black gore of old, dead blood across the pristine white of the sheets. Stepping backwards too slowly, Imhotep was sprayed with the noxious liquid himself, the dark brown, almost black droplets covering his hands, his clothing, even splattering up into his face.

Ignoring the disgust and discomfort of the filth that covered him, quieting the roiling of his own stomach with an iron will, Imhotep wiped the worst of the gore from his hands onto his pants, and moved to the bedside, where Doug now lay, exhausted and drenched in sweat from the bout of nausea. He reached for a towel that lay on a nearby chair, wetting it with water from the pitcher on the table beside the bed, intending to clean the young man up as best he could, when a voice from just outside the plastic curtain stopped him in his tracks, chilling him to the bone.

"What in the name of god are you doing in there?" Robillard's voice, icy and hard as diamonds, challenged him. Pushing aside the curtain, a heavy-set nurse draped in all manner of protective garb brushed past Imhotep, pausing to glare sternly at the priest before moving to Doug's side and beginning to cluck over him while she mopped up the mess with a disposable cloth. Doug's only comment was a weary moan, as he fell into a state of exhausted semi-consciousness.

With one last glance at Doug, Imhotep turned to face Robillard. Callie was there as well, standing next to the pretentious Frenchman, her expression one of abject horror as her eyes swept over Imhotep, taking in the soiled and contaminated condition of his clothing and his exposed skin. She started forward, holding out a hand to him. "Imhotep…"

Robillard pulled her back with a grip of steel, his eyes never leaving those of the priest. "Are you insane, Doctor al Faran? That madman has just exposed himself to a Level Four Biohazard agent. You are not to go near him, unless you are wearing the appropriate protective equipment. No one will. His complete disregard for medical protocol, and what I can only call his raging lunacy, has now made him not only a danger to himself, but to _everyone else in this camp_."

To Imhotep, Robillard issued his final, unarguable edict. "You wanted to play in my infirmary? Fine. You're in my infirmary. And you'll stay here, until you're either proven uninfected, or we carry you out in a body bag."

Past the point of arrogance, past the point of argument, past anything but an exhausted weariness of both mind and body, Imhotep didn't even attempt to dispute Robillard's decree. With a compliant passivity that was totally out of character for him, Imhotep surrendered to the inevitable, and bowed to the inescapable hand of fate. He would not fight this—there was nothing else he could do for Doug on the outside, anyway—and apart from this task, there was nothing else left for him in this world. Eliana was lost to him, by her own choice, and even if she had not been, he could not have gone near her anyway. He would not have dared risk contaminating her. He knew that he was in no danger himself, but he recognized the truth in Robillard's words—having been exposed to the disease like this, he could well be a walking plague, just as he been for countless centuries. The irony of that was not lost on Imhotep.

Lifting his head, he met Callie's stare with his own bleak gaze, and although she, too, knew that his quarantine was medically necessary, she couldn't stop herself from being moved almost to tears by the look of abject desolation in the dark depths of his eyes.

* * *

"That is the plan." 

Bashir sat back on his chair, agape. His contact at the site leaned back as well, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. The scheme that the man had just mapped out was elegant in its simplicity, but would require a coordinated effort to set up and accomplish. There would be no margin for error, no leeway for faintheartedness; no room for anything but the most dedicated resolve. The implementation of this plan might well demand the lives of some of their comrades—only those with the necessary fortitude could be entrusted with the more delicate aspects of the strategy.

"This is…ambitious, brother." Bashir couldn't keep all of the skepticism from his voice. He was already nervous about meeting like this, out in the open, even though he knew that no one who saw them sharing a cup of coffee in the mess tent would spare them a second glance, let alone a second thought. But the plan he had just heard, although simple, was an act of terror on a grand scale, and enough to give him pause.

"Allah is with us, _brother_," his superior reminded him, the slight emphasis on the last word delicately underscoring the fact that they were not, in truth, equals.

"Praise Allah," Bashir hastened to interject, not wanting to risk arousing the other man's ire. "Am I right in assuming, then, that the samples that they have already taken to Khartoum have been…intercepted?"

Leaning back, gratified with Bashir's submission to his authority, the other man smiled once again. "You are indeed correct, brother." He pressed his hands together, steepling his fingers, as he outlined what had already been accomplished. "Our contact in Khartoum has secured the blood sample from the dead man, and the fluid from the pyramid. It was an easy matter to intercept them. The lab had already prepared them for shipment to Geneva. They were put on the plane, in fact. Unfortunately for the World Health Organization, however, the samples will never arrive."

Bashir snickered, imagining how pitifully easy it would have been to snatch the deadly, but precious, cargo. "So the only remaining source of the virus now exists here, in the pyramid?"

"Exactly. For however long the pyramid itself continues to exist, of course."

"Of course. And once we have secured a quantity of the fluid from the statue in the grotto, we will take care of ensuring that ours is the only supply that exists in the world?" Bashir clarified his superior's reasoning, not content to make _any_ assumptions, at this point. "The pyramid will be destroyed?"

"Again, you are correct." The man leaned forward, a feverish intensity in his eyes. "Once we have the fluid containing the virus, we will take it to our people, our labs. There, they will be able to study it, develop a way to contain it, transport it, and eventually, develop a method for disbursing it in places of our choosing. Once we have a way of targeting it, releasing it amongst the unbelieving infidels of the world, we will be unstoppable. No one, nothing, no power on earth will be able to stand against us."

"Praise Allah!" Bashir echoed again, more from reflexive habit than from any true religious belief. "And with their samples having disappeared, they will be left helpless, having had no chance to study the virus, no time to concoct any defense against it. They will be pitted against the clock, desperately racing to find a remedy that will not exist!"

The other man nodded, an evil leer playing over his dark features. "I am pleased you so completely understand our objectives."

"Thank you, brother." Bashir flushed, happy with the praise. "You are certain that no other samples have been removed from the site?"

"Quite certain," said his commander. "No one has left the site since then. The only viral samples that remain are in the pyramid and in the bodies of those infected. As long as you and your men brought enough of the explosives to do the job, we should be ready."

"Do not worry," Bashir assured him. "We brought enough to completely level the pyramid, and a half-mile radius surrounding it. Nothing will remain. No survivors, no witnesses."

"Good," said the other man, pushing back his chair to stand. "And a helicopter will be waiting, just outside that radius, to take us back to Khartoum once our objective is complete. Ahm Shere will once again return to the sands of the desert, where it belongs, and best of all…" He trailed off, a pleased smirk on his face.

Bashir finished for him, as he stood up to leave as well. Even though their sharing a late morning coffee break together was not remarkable in and of itself, it would not do for them to be seen spending too much time together in conversation. "Best of all, it will look as though it was the American's fault all along. Bernstein will go down in history as the man who destroyed the greatest archaeological find of the century."

* * *

"You were exposed to the virus?" Ardeth's voice reflected his shock, and his dismay, as he stared at the man on the other side of the thin wall of plastic sheeting. After hearing that Imhotep had been put under indefinite quarantine in the infirmary, he had come at once, talking his way past the lone nurse who now watched two charges—one lying in quiet misery on his hospital bed, the other standing in stoic silence in one corner of what had been Eric's isolation unit. Imhotep, now cleaned up and dressed in yet another set of borrowed clothes, inclined his head in a silent nod. 

Casting a glance at the dour-faced nurse, and seeing that she was watching, Ardeth held the mask up to his mouth and nose, grimacing inwardly when he saw the mocking curve of the priest's lips, the slight lift of one haughty brow. In the hours that had passed since his exposure, some of Imhotep's natural arrogance had trickled back, and the sight of one of the high and mighty Med Jai meekly capitulating to the iron-clad edicts of the health care team was enough to provide him with some spiteful amusement.

"What is it you want, Med Jai? You have surely not come to offer your condolences, so say what you have to say, and be gone." Even with the partial return of his imperious nature, Imhotep sounded more tired than angry, more resigned than challenging. Ardeth noted the change, and adjusted his response accordingly.

"It is not my wish that it should end this way." He sighed, and dropped the mask from his face. The nurse, occupied with other things, didn't notice. He turned slightly, facing the bubble that contained Doug. "It seemed, for a time, that some good could come of this…"

Imhotep made no answer, so Ardeth pressed on. "You are aware, Imhotep, that the plant you sought is extinct?"

"Yes."

"Are you aware as well that it has been so for two thousand years?" Ardeth's patience with the priest's monosyllabic replies was wearing thin.

"Yes."

His voice was sharper now, conveying a growing irritation. "So then you must recall as well telling Callie al Faran that you have actually used the plant before, to treat this disease?"

Ardeth watched as the ramifications of those two facts, considered together, finally dawned on the priest. It was a testimony to Imhotep's utter fatigue the day before, that it hadn't occurred to him until now. The Med Jai watched as the priest's face lost color and his eyes narrowed in self-recrimination. "What do they know?"

"Nothing, yet. They have not asked, and I have not volunteered any information." Ardeth's voice was calm, yet conveyed a sense of inner agitation. With every passing hour, this situation felt like it was teetering more and more precariously on the edge of catastrophe. "But they have their suspicions, particularly Connelly. He is the one who unearthed the information on the plant, and who pointed out the impossibility of your having used it. As of now, he believes you either a liar or a madman."

The silence stretched on for a small eternity before Imhotep finally spoke. "Let him believe as he will, then. Either of those is preferable to the truth."

"I fear that 'letting' him believe something will not be adequate, priest." Ardeth didn't know why he was so concerned about Matt Connelly's questioning nature, or the strange sense of familiarity he had felt upon meeting the brash American, but something about the man plagued him. It was as though he was missing something that should have been patently obvious, and it vexed him to no end. But try as he might, he could not put his finger on what it was about the man that triggered his concern. "The man is inquisitive, and doggedly persistent. He may let the questions go unanswered for now, but his very nature will not let them rest indefinitely."

"He has harassed me through other lifetimes." Imhotep's tone was matter-of-fact; in truth, the longer he thought about the matter, the less he cared. "Why should this one be different?"

"What?" Ardeth's head snapped up. "What did you say?"

Imhotep's brows shot up in question as his eyes searched the Med Jai's, finding the answer to his question before he asked it. A slow smile curved his lips, as he realized that Ardeth Bay truly had not known. Merciless delight shone from his eyes. Instead of a question, his words became a statement. "You have not recognized him." He laughed softly, a taunting, cruel sound.

Ardeth took a step closer, a grim challenge in his bearing. "We have no time for games, priest." Had the plastic sheeting not separated him from the priest's mocking countenance, he would have been tempted to shake the smirk from the man's face. "If you know something about Connelly, tell me."

"A mighty Med Jai? Asking favors of the loathsome Creature?" Imhotep shook his head, in a parody of amazement. Sarcasm dripped from his words. "Surely your famed insight and knowledge should have unearthed the knowledge you seek, without forcing you to stoop so low…"

"Damn you, priest…" Ardeth began, only to be cut off by Imhotep's bark of laughter.

"You have already done that, Med Jai." The words were bitterly mirthful. "Is that the limit of your creativity?"

"Imhotep, _who_ is Connelly? What do you know?" The dark features of the Med Jai were tense with desperation; he _knew_ that this was vitally important, in some way. "Damn you, man; tell me!"

"I am a _man_, now? No longer a Creature?" Imhotep questioned, feigning surprise, watching as Ardeth's jaw clenched in angry frustration. With a sigh, the priest turned, staring at the blank monitor screens that surrounded him, abandoning the game. "I suggest you study your Med Jai lore and history at greater length, Bay. Perhaps _you_ have forgotten Rick O'Connell; I have not."

"Rick O'Connell." Ardeth's breath escaped in a hiss, as comprehension dawned. "Of course." That explained the nagging sense that he knew the man; that he and Connelly were connected in some way. Although O'Connell had always denied being a part of the Med Jai order, Ardeth's grandfather had always sworn that in the spirit, he had been a brother, as much as anyone born of the twelve tribes. Fate had simply brought him to them via a different path.

"If Rick O'Connell has been reborn as Matt Connelly, then what of…" Ardeth began, before the answer hit him squarely in the solar plexus. "The doctor."

"Very good, Med Jai; very good. You are perhaps more perceptive than I gave you credit for being." Imhotep's smile was forced, not reaching his eyes. "The players are once again assembled on the game board, subject to the gods' whim, and the fickle conceits of fate."

"A man's destiny involves the journey, as well as the destination, Imhotep." Ardeth spoke instinctively, somehow knowing what was going through the priest's mind. "A man's becoming is as important as his final form."

Imhotep ignored the philosophizing. "Why have you come here, Med Jai?"

_That_ was the question; that was the issue at the heart of the matter. Truth be told, Ardeth didn't _know_ why he had felt compelled to come here when he had learned of the priest's fate; some inner voice had prompted him, and he had heeded its counsel. Briefly, he debated the wisdom of fabricating a reasonable lie; ultimately, his innate honesty prevailed.

"In truth, priest," the admission came slowly, with a cautious candor, "I do not know if I fully understand that, myself."

The soft hiss and click of the equipment in Doug's bubble marked time as Ardeth searched for the right words. Still not sure he had accurately captured the essence of his impulsion, he nonetheless tried to articulate it.

"I do not wish you to fail in this task of yours, Imhotep. In part, of course, because this contagion must be stopped, and if the gods have chosen you for that task, I cannot argue with their wisdom." He paced as he spoke, as though the physical movement would prompt some greater mental clarity. "Another reason still, is my oath to Eliana; my promise to her that I would not hinder you, so long as you posed no threat. As yet, I have seen no sign of such a threat."

He stopped and looked squarely into the shadowed eyes of the priest, hesitant to continue, yet needing to do so. "And finally, I find myself…hoping, somehow, that it is as you say, and the curse can be lifted." Ardeth paused once again. If he finished the thought, he would have stepped well beyond the boundaries of unquestioning loyalty demanded by his order—beyond them, and very nearly into the realm of sedition. He searched the priest's eyes, looking for some remnant of evil, some sinister gleam of lingering malevolence. What he saw reflected back at him were traits that any mortal man could claim—human pride, and arrogance, and anger, and a deep, abiding bitterness. And perhaps, underneath all of those, a profound loneliness. He saw no Creature, no inhuman monster.

With a sigh, he went on. "The Hom Dai has been a curse to the Med Jai as well, Imhotep. For thousands of years, we have existed to serve its memory, prevent its darkness from tainting the outside world. It has been a long road, and perhaps we have finally come to its end. I do not know.

"Eliana has led me to believe that perhaps there were extenuating circumstances for your actions, all those eons ago. I do not know that, either. Perhaps it is a weakness in me; a sign that I am unworthy of the Med Jai heritage." He prepared to utter the last, worst heresy. "But I would like to believe that, in the end, there is always a path by which a man can ransom his own soul."

Imhotep had listened impassively, unemotionally, for the duration of the Med Jai's speech. But now, at its conclusion, he expelled a long breath, unable to believe what he had just heard. The calm of his voice disguised his incredulity. "Your brethren would brand you a traitor for your words, Bay."

"You are probably correct," Ardeth agreed. "They would."

Imhotep glanced away, towards Doug, watching as the young man's chest rose and fell in shallow, painful breaths. It was a long while before he spoke, and even then, he did not meet Ardeth's eyes. "Thank you."

A pause, and finally he raised his eyes. "Med Jai."

Ardeth inclined his head, still not completely comfortable with the uneasy truce that had been forged. "What will you do now, Imhotep? What recourse do you have?"

Imhotep shook his head. "I do not know." He turned back towards Doug. "For now, I will simply watch, and wait."

"That is perhaps all that can be done, at least for now." Ardeth glanced at the nurse, who had begun to walk towards them. "It appears my time is up."

Imhotep looked towards the oncoming nurse and smiled in grim amusement. "It appears so."

Ardeth turned to go, but at the last minute, some impulse stopped him. Looking back at the priest, he chose his words carefully. "Eliana will be…concerned." He masked any trace of pity in his voice or expression. Imhotep would neither welcome nor tolerate such emotion. "Is there any message you wish me to bring to her?"

"Tell her…" Imhotep turned away, hiding the pain that flared in his eyes. "Tell her that I wish her well, and that…" His voice broke; he disguised it with a low rumble of sound that could have been a cough. "That if the curse can be broken, she will be free as well, and I will pray that the gods grant her a long, happy life."

Ardeth stared at Imhotep, unable to stop the stab of sympathy he felt for the priest. "You are sure that is the message you wish me to convey?" There was no response.

"Very well—I will tell her."

* * *

Eliana drew in a breath. "He's unhurt?" In the hours that had passed since she had learned of Imhotep's fate, Eliana had gone through a gamut of emotions, from shock, to horror, to despair, and finally to a pervasive sorrow that seemed to shadow her inmost being. She had almost given in to her urge to go to him; only a realization that there was nothing that she could do, save make matters worse, had stopped her. Finally, she had hidden herself away in a secluded room, deep in the bowels of the pyramid—ostensibly to work, in reality to grieve. Ardeth had found her just moments before. "Does he think he'll have time before…" She swallowed hard. "Does he think he can do what he has to, before the virus…affects him?" 

"He does not seem overly concerned about the virus exposure itself, Eliana." Her eyebrows lifted, and he shrugged. "He did not elaborate on his lack of concern. However, he _is_ frustrated, and anxious, about the task that has been set before him." Ardeth stood near Eliana, watching as she schooled her features and returned to meticulously tracing the pattern of glyphs on a meter-long section of a mural that filled a wall five times that size. For some reason, he felt compelled to continue; that last, despairing look he had seen on the priest's face had not left him, in all the hours that had passed. "He is alone, fighting against a force that continually thwarts him. He seems almost ready to give up, Eliana."

She didn't even look up, but he could see her knuckles turn white, betraying her tension, although her voice was painstakingly neutral. "That should please you, Med Jai." Her unconscious use of Imhotep's derisive tone when applying the appellation revealed her true loyalties. Ardeth doubted that she even realized she had used the scoffing title. "Isn't it your goal to destroy him? This should make your job easier, and so much more satisfying..."

"It doesn't." His flat, matter-of-fact statement drew her up short, and she stopped her work on the mural, staring at him in open-mouthed shock. "We have come to an understanding, Eliana, Imhotep and I."

Her mouth closed, then opened again, then settled into a disbelieving frown as she struggled to assimilate this new, unexpected information. Finally, she managed a lame query, her surprise at his announcement very clear. "You have?"

He nodded. "I have seen another side of him, Eliana—a side that either did not exist before, or that was corrupted and perverted by the curse that we—my ancestors, my brethren—laid upon his soul."

Once again, she was near speechless. "When did _this_ revelation occur?"

His smile was not without humor. "No blinding flash of insight, Eliana; no lightning strike. I have simply watched, and observed, and wondered."

"And your conclusion…?" She was almost afraid to ask.

"I could be wrong, Eliana. My Med Jai brothers would certainly tell you that I am." He moved to inspect the intricate pattern in a group of glyphs, the shift in lighting casting his features into sharp relief. Casually, as though discussing something as prosaic as the designs in the ancient mural, he observed, "From what I have seen, Eliana, I can only conclude that he is a man, like any other. He has his strengths; he has his flaws. He has undoubtedly erred in the past, committed sins, done wrong." He stopped; turned to look into her eyes. "As has anyone; as have I." In the next breath, he took the final step, uttering the pronouncement that would brand him a traitor to his order.

"I see no evil in him, Eliana, apart from the evil that marks us all."

Eliana's eyes burned with the effort it took to hold back her tears. Hearing Ardeth's words were a vindication, not just for Imhotep, but for herself, as well. Slowly, she laid down the tools she had been using, carefully placing them back into their leather storage pouch. Reaching out, she placed a hand on his arm. "Thank you, Ardeth." She cleared away the lump in her throat. "Thank you."

His dark-skinned hand covered hers. "Do not thank me overmuch, Eliana. I have been reluctant, and obstinate, and even now, I must confess to having some reservations, and feeling a sense of having betrayed my kinsmen."

Her eyes softened as she saw the genuine conflict in his. "I understand that, Ardeth. Truly, I do." She thought for a moment. "Maybe…"

"Yes?"

She faced him, and he could see from her face that she had reached some decision. "Maybe it's time you heard the whole story, Ardeth."

He tried not to reveal the true degree of his interest. "Only if you feel comfortable in sharing it with me, Eliana."

"It's not a story that allows for much comfort, Ardeth," she said, the shadow memory of every day of every year of every century of the curse weighting her words like heavy stones. "But I think it's time you heard it."

Once again, she placed a hand on his arm, this time leading him over to a golden bench, carved from the same stone as the pyramid itself. "Sit down, my friend. The story is a long one…"

* * *

"He's not worried about it at all?" Connelly was dumbfounded, a perplexed frown furrowing his forehead as he looked up at her from his perch on a low pedestal. "He's just been exposed to one of the deadliest viruses known to man and he's not even the tiniest bit worried? I mean, he saw Eric melt into a puddle in front of your eyes, right?" 

For once, she ignored his less-than-stellar imagery. "Yes, he knows how deadly the virus is. But he's never seemed the least bit worried. In fact, it was a battle just getting him to wear a mask and gloves."

She moved away from the statue she had been leaning against, rubbing absent-mindedly at the spot on her hip that had rested against the hard stone. Connelly followed the motion with his eyes, trying to ignore the feelings that stirred in him from so innocent a thing as that innocuous gesture. Focusing on the vagaries of the Egyptian man was a better idea. Focusing on anything else at all was a better idea. "He's an odd one, all right."

"He told me after Robillard left that putting him under quarantine was unnecessary—that he wouldn't get the disease, that he had been exposed before, and that he had never been infected."

"He's gotta be wrong, right?" Connelly questioned. "Ebola's highly contagious, isn't it?"

"Under the right circumstances, yes it is." Callie sat down next to him, her thigh brushing against his. He jumped up as though a gun had gone off behind his head. Her startled gaze shot to his face. "Whatever is the matter with you?"

"Ah, nothing. Nothing at all." His long legs measured out what he hoped was a safe distance between them. "Just feeling a little restless, I guess."

"Um…of course." One dark brow lifted skeptically, but Callie was too polite to argue the matter. "Anyway. He was completely covered in gore…"

"Doug barfed all over the guy?" Once again, Connelly's penchant for cutting to the chase was astoundingly artless.

"Well, yes." _Why fight it?_ Deciding to pick her battles more selectively, Callie let the comment slide. "He did."

"So our friend Imhotep's gonna get sick, too." There was no question at all in Connelly's mind. "You can't have a huge exposure like that and hope to squeak by somehow, on luck alone."

"Well, that's just the thing," she said, remembering what Imhotep had told her. "He said that when he'd treated people before, he'd been exposed—just as badly as this time, mind you—and that nothing had ever come of it."

"Oh come on," Connelly scoffed. "What gives? The more I think about it, the more I'm beginning to think that the guy's living in some weird little fantasy world." Connelly paced back and forth, ticking off the facts on his fingers. "I mean, let's look at this. First, he treats people with nonexistent herbal remedies. Next, he knows stories about ancient plagues—that somehow mysteriously don't affect him. For an encore, he bathes in Ebola virus and tells you that he won't get sick." He stopped pacing to look at her in disgust. "You ask me, he's crazy."

Connelly sat down again, this time on a pedestal facing Callie. He braced his arm on his knees, and leaned forward. "The guy's Egyptian, right? Maybe he thinks the gods are protecting him—wasn't his "namesake" the Egyptian patron saint of medicine, or something? Maybe he thinks he's leading a charmed life—immune to it, or something."

Callie had listened in silence to Connelly's tirade. Now, she sat back, deep in thought. Connelly thought that if he looked hard enough, he'd be able to see the wheels turning in her mind. "What? What'd I say?"

"Prior exposure, no infection. If he's telling the truth, that does seem to suggest some degree of immunity, doesn't it?" Callie talked to herself as she thought—it was a habit she had tried to break herself of over the years, but to no avail. Articulating a theory always seemed to clarify it in her mind. Lost in thought, she went on. "He's Egyptian. He certainly _looks_ like he comes from pure Egyptian stock."

"Where are you going with this, Doc?" Connelly sounded worried, as though _she_ was about to fall victim to some sort of communal dementia. "So what?"

"This virus…it's ancient. The ancestor of all the modern strains." She looked over at him, excitement beginning to dance in her eyes. "It's been locked underground for millennia—since the time of the Scorpion King legends. Underground, all that time, in a stagnant environment. No change, nothing to adapt to, no reason at all to do anything but just lie dormant."

"Yeah?" Connelly countered. "It seems to kill people fine, just the way it is. I still don't see your point."

"It killed _Eric_—an American, probably of Scandinavian descent."

"Yup, and it did a really thorough job of it, too." He cocked his head. "And your point is?"

"Don't you remember what we talked about just yesterday? About how the disease swept through Egypt, killing everyone who wasn't able to resist it, somehow? Through some sort of natural immunity?"

"Yeah, I _do_. And I _still_ don't see where you're going with this."

"Connelly! _Think_ about it!" She jumped up, almost vibrating with excitement now, impatient with his lack of understanding. "This virus is the _original_ one—the one that a few lucky people were genetically able to resist, before it mutated into some other form—or forms. Those would be the forms that have survived up through today—Reston, Zaire, Sudan; Marburg, even. Imhotep is Egyptian. It's a long shot, but he could have inherited some sort of genetic resistance to the original virus, passed on through the generations." Hands on her hips, she stood in front of him, daring him to find some flaw in her logic.

"So what are you gonna do?" Connelly had to admit that he saw the logic, but she was right. It was a long shot. _Still… Wasn't it worth enough, at this point, to take _any_ kind of shot? If Imhotep _was_ somehow immune, and his blood could be used to develop a serum…_ "You gonna get him to donate blood and cook it up into some kind of anti-venom?"

"No, you silly man!" She beamed at him, and the change in her—the sheer joy that lit her face—was so profound that all he could do was stare. "I'm going to _test_ his blood first. _Then_ I'm going to cook up the anti-venom!" Bending down, she grabbed his face in both of her hands and planted a kiss squarely on his mouth.

"You are an amazing man, Matt! I would never have thought of this, without our having this conversation. Thank you!" In the space of a heartbeat, she was gone, racing off towards the entrance to the pyramid, and the infirmary inside.

Connelly stared after her, dazed. His lips tingled where they had touched hers, and he felt as though he'd received a huge psychic jolt all the way down to his bones. "Sure, Doc," he said, the words drifting after her departing form. "Don't mention it."

Leaning back against the stone of the statue, he shook his head, more amazed over his extraordinary reaction to her than to the possibilities of her theory. "Good luck, Doc, you'll need it. It's a long shot, for sure. The odds of your being right about this are about as good as the odds that our mysterious friend really has had his mitts on that two thousand year old plant."

He thought for a minute more, and then found the one flaw in her logic. "And what about all these 'other cases' he's seen, and the exposures he's had?" He rubbed the fingers of his left hand against his temple, massaging away a sudden tightness. _Damn, but it gave him a headache, this situation did._ "If he's immune to only the original virus, then _that's_ what those folks must have had, for him not to get sick. And how did _they_ get it, if it's some kind of thing that mutated thousands of years ago and only existed in its original form right here in good old Ahm Shere?"

Thousands of years ago. _It all kept coming back to that, didn't it?_ There was a pattern there, somewhere, and Matt Connelly had always liked a good puzzle. But the only way he could fit the oddball pieces of it together was by putting the one key entity—Imhotep himself—into an impossible scenario. If he was telling the truth, Imhotep had either traveled through time, or was several thousand years old. Neither of those things was possible. It was much easier—not to mention much saner—to believe that the man was a lunatic or a liar.

Connelly sat there, enveloped in the lazy somnolence of late afternoon, struggling with the undecipherable conundrum. Behind him, the bright African sunlight winked off the gleaming gold of the pyramid—the monument itself a tangible testimony to how very feasible the inconceivable could be.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Eliana," the quiet words resounded in the silence of the tomb-like room. "I had no idea. None of this was ever known; not to me, not to the Med Jai." 

She looked at him in puzzlement and stated the obvious. "It wouldn't have mattered if it had been known, Ardeth." Her tone bespoke genuine confusion. "What could it have changed? Seti was a god on earth—a living deity who walked among men. We killed him, and we were found out. What difference would it have made, in those days, to have known what our motives were?"

There was no answer but the truth. "You are right. It would not have mattered."

"But now _you_ know, Ardeth." She gave him a weak, feeble smile. "_You_ know."

His hand grasped hers, the warmth of it taking away some of her chill. "Yes, Eliana, now I know."

"So you understand, at least a little? You believe me?" Her eyes begged him to affirm that belief. "Imhotep is not evil, Ardeth. He's as you said—proud, arrogant, bitter—all those things. He's flawed as any man." Love softened her face, lit her eyes. "And as extraordinary."

A gentle squeeze to her hand reassured her. "I believe you, Eliana." They sat in silence for a while, as the torches illuminated the magnificent artwork of millennia past. "You adore him, don't you?"

A silent tear rolled down her cheek. "Beyond words. If I could sell my soul to break the curse on his, I would."

Unable to offer any other comfort than the meager solace of his companionship, Ardeth put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. "He said to tell you that he wished you well, and that he believed that if the curse was lifted from him, it would be from you, as well."

She had no reply, and he began to think she hadn't heard him. "Eliana? Do you have nothing to say? Will you not at least go and see him, if not for your sake, then for his?"

"He's better off without me, Ardeth." It was a painful admission, but to her, it was truth. "I've done nothing but bring pain and suffering to him, since the very beginning. Maybe without me, he can find peace."

"Perhaps, Eliana; perhaps," he murmured softly, understanding her, but disagreeing with her in almost every way. "But it could be that ultimately, _peace_ is a poor substitute for what is really longed for."

* * *

The lab was quiet with the solemn hush of early morning. Outside, the camp slept; inside, the timeless cavern of the pyramid harbored an air of subtle watchfulness as fate fed a new thread into the pattern on her loom and a slight but significant change in balance shifted the scales. 

"Maggie, come here and take a look at this, will you?" Phyllis lifted her head from the eyepiece of the high-powered microscope, a puzzled frown on her face. She waited until Maggie had crossed the room and reached her side before twisting the expensive piece of equipment around on its stand and offering it to her colleague. Maggie lifted one eyebrow at the excitement in Phyllis' voice, but bent her head and peered through the lens. "Do you see it?"

"Not yet," Maggie said, fiddling with the controls, bringing the samples into better focus. "Almost got it…wait! There!" She examined the slide in silence for a long moment, then straightened up with a frown. "What did you do to these?"

"Nothing!" Phyllis was excited now, the elation in her voice almost palpable. "I didn't do anything, except set up the test exactly as Doctor al Faran ordered. What you're seeing is the result of that test."

Maggie's frown grew deeper as she bent back down to look again. When she stood, the same stupefied look of amazement was on her face. "But that's impossible…"

"It's right in front of our eyes, Maggie." Phyllis said, jubilant over what this could mean for them all. "I'm going to ask Robillard to order a different test, using a different sample for the control, but…"

"My god," Maggie breathed, once again drawn back to the microscopic world teeming under the plastic cover of the slide. On one half of the slide, Callie's blood reacted to the infusion of virus that Phyllis had added. The red blood cells on that half of the slide were broken open, destroyed, utterly ruined through the process of birthing new virus particles. Others were huge, pregnant, swollen with enormous bricks of hatchling disease. On the other half, Imhotep's blood was clear, the red blood cells smooth and rounded, pristine and untouched. It was as though they'd never been infected at all. "You're sure you infected both samples?"

Phyllis' answer was a smug nod. "I'm positive."

Maggie stood up suddenly, knocking over the tall lab stool in her excitement. "Do you know what this means?"

"Yes!" Phyllis answered her, not even bothering to control her rising excitement. "We may just have found our silver bullet!"


	21. Chapter 21

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

_At the ends of the universe is a blood red cord that ties life to death, man to woman, will to destiny. Let the knot of that red sash, which cradles the hips of the goddess, bind in me the ends of life and dream. I'm an old man with more than my share of hopes and misgivings. Let my thoughts lie together in peace. At my death let the bubbles of blood on my lips taste as sweet as berries. Give me not words of consolation. Give me magic, the fire of one beyond the borders of enchantment. Give me the spell of living well._

_Learning peace itself is a struggle. More often I know the air as it whips my face. When the wind is still, I forget the wind. Walking through town, I turn longingly to the mountain. On the mountain I gaze back on the town. When there's much talk I withdraw into silence. When it is quiet I strain to hear some song. Having no trouble, I create some to keep the day interesting. We misunderstand the quiet. In the heat of the day I seek shadows. At night I praise the light of stars. The moon grows legs and wanders through an old man's heart seeking some dark corner to inspire. At midday the gods walk through town invisible as cats. Only children and wise old men know the difference._

_Even night and day struggle, make peace between themselves. We call that beautiful sunset and dawn. In the spirits of men we call it a state of grace. Unless the earth enveloped the seed and the seed struggled against the darkness, there would be no corn. The moment we are born we begin to die. In each death we are born again. We take in the air and the air escapes us. Call it the breath of life. I no longer call loss disaster. It is the empty heart waiting to be filled. From the act of love, two bodies straining against each other, there rises the star of children. After opposition comes unity. Knowing that removes the sting of failure._

_--Excerpts from "The Knot of Isis" and "Field of Flowers", __Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

"The same?" Maggie crooked her head and peered at the notes Phyllis was furiously scribbling into the notebook beside her, writing blind as she kept her eyes glued to the lenspiece of the microscope.

"Yes, the same." Phyllis was distracted, trying to write as quickly as she could, but still capture all the pertinent information. "His blood's still not reacting." Imhotep's blood had now been tested against three additional controls besides Callie's. Matt had cheerfully provided one sample; Sabir, although his swarthy skin had blanched white when he saw the needle, had also contributed to the cause; Jacques Robillard himself, grumbling the entire time, had furnished the third and final specimen. "You finish the comparative analysis, yet?"

"I think so." Maggie was nervous about this—her results would be vital to the research papers that would eventually follow this discovery—and she didn't want to chance being wrong. "I think I've got it narrowed down to one protein molecule that's just a bit different in his blood, but I'm kind of scared to say that definitively without having someone else go over my documentation."

She sat down on the stool next to Phyllis, tapping her fingers on the metal tabletop. "I'm having Jean check over the results for me."

Phyllis dragged her eyes from the microscope, lifting her eyebrows at Maggie. "You want to be _that_ sure, huh?" Jean Godfrey, Robillard's second-in-command, was an expert in infectious diseases, a true genius that preferred the quiet of the lab to the glaring limelight that Robillard fancied. If Robillard was the voice of the team, Jean was its brain. An exacting researcher, she was meticulous in her work, demanding of her associates, and completely dedicated to her cause. But for all that, she was kind, as well, and Maggie would much prefer having her work picked apart by Jean's hand than by Robillard's.

"Yeah, I do." Maggie leaned back on the stool, propping her elbows on the tabletop to support herself. "This is too important to risk making a mistake."

"That's true," Phyllis agreed, turning away from her colleague to scribble down the last few words of her summary. "We have what we need right now to cook up the serum, but isolating the protective agent in his blood is the foundation for all the research that will come later." She switched off the microscope, turning once again to her coworker. "Don't want to mess that up, for sure."

"You ready, Phyllis?" Maggie slid off the stool, waiting for her colleague. "Robillard wanted us to get him as soon as we were ready with the results of these last tests."

"I'm ready." Phyllis gathered up her documentation. It would be hard for Robillard to discount the results of four separate tests, and at the rate Doug was failing, they had very nearly run out of time for more exhaustive experimentation. Everything that she had seen so far pointed towards the irrefutable fact that _something_ in Imhotep's blood chemistry was stopping the virus in its tracks. Using the immunoglobulin in his blood, they would soon be able to fabricate a serum product that could be injected into Doug and hopefully produce the same results. Although it wouldn't provide Doug with lifetime immunity to the disease, the way some vaccinations did, it could hopefully provide him with a cure this time around.

The premise was the same as that used to treat humans after an exposure to rabies—a series of shots given after the exposure transferred limited passive immunity to the victim. But there was no little need for faith, here. In rabies cases, once symptoms actually appeared, an indication that the virus had successfully attacked the central nervous system, the disease was one hundred percent fatal, without exception, regardless of whether or not the injections were given. Ebola went after the central nervous system as well, and Doug had been symptomatic for days. For all that Ebola's sister virus, Marburg, was originally called "stretched rabies", due to the physical appearance of the virus particles themselves, they would have to hope that the similarity between this virus and rabies ended with looks alone, and that the serum could somehow work its way through Doug's system and result in a cure.

"Let's go make history then, shall we?" Maggie wouldn't let herself fall victim to doubt. At this point, hope—and their precious supply of immunoreactive blood serum—was all they had.

* * *

"And his blood serum seems to contains an immunoglobulin—a protein molecule—that not only binds to the virus and renders it unable to reproduce, but also seems to make it more susceptible to attack by the other blood proteins." Although she was tired, Callie's expressive brown eyes were alive with enthusiasm, and she paced back and forth excitedly. 

Connelly felt as though he were watching a tennis match in fast forward. He was, as usual, sprawled carelessly in one of the chairs, fiddling with his photographic equipment. He had shot several roles of film yesterday, thinking that he should probably start to act like a photojournalist, even if he was not. _And_, he reasoned, _having photos of the site couldn't hurt the CIA's case, either._ In addition to shooting the exterior and interior of the pyramid, he had made it a point to get shots of all of the site workers, the plethora of visitors, and the entire archaeological team, as well.

Finally, he couldn't stand it any more. Just watching her pace was making him nervous. "Doc, you're gonna wear a trench in the ground there, if you don't stop." She looked over at him, startled by his remark, and he tried to distract her. "And can you translate what you just said into something that the rest of us non-geniuses can understand?"

Her lips pursed into the little moue he was coming to recognize as a sign of irritation. "Matt, what I said was perfectly understandable, if you had bothered listening." With a sweeping wave of her hand, she took in the other people seated around the table—Ardeth Bay, Akil Hamid, and several of the Sudanese diplomats. "It seems as though everyone else has been following along splendidly." Connelly bit back his reply that he had understood her just fine, but that he would have done or said anything at that point, just to get her to stop moving. At least she was motionless, now, even if she was standing there with her hands on her hips, glowering at him. "In plain English, Imhotep's blood contains an agent that can attack the virus and possibly cure Doug."

"Well, why didn't you say that in the first place?" He was purposely goading her, and she very nearly took the bait.

With a sigh, she overlooked his deliberate provocation and turned away from him. "I give up. This is wonderful news, and I refuse to let your childish teasing spoil it."

"I apologize, Doc." He really _hadn't_ meant to mar her enthusiasm. For some reason, though, he just couldn't stop himself from constantly wanting to bait her. "It _is_ good news. Really it is. It's terrific."

"Doctor al Faran," Akil Hamid's voice was quiet, deferential. "This is truly an amazing discovery. Are we to understand, then, that using Imhotep's blood, you will create a serum that can be used to treat the disease, not just in Doug, but also in others who may contract the virus? You have discovered a cure for Ebola?"

"For _this strain_ of Ebola, yes—we hope so, anyway," said Callie, her enthusiasm tinged with a sensible caution. "Although it's doubtful, based on what we know, that he's immune to the modern strains of the disease, we can at least make the serum to treat this particular virus, and use it to help Doug. Afterwards, Robillard will have the serum and blood samples flown to Khartoum to be tested against the modern strains." She bit her lip, an outward sign of her concern. "It's just that, even with regard to _this_ strain, Doug is already symptomatic, and that's never a good thing. Still…" She trailed off, then squared her shoulders, injecting more determination into her tone. "Still, we have to try, and hope for the best."

Tariq Bashir's oily smile polluted the space inside the tent. "Of course. One must always hope for the best, even in a most difficult situation. Our thoughts are certainly with the unfortunate young man…"

Callie glanced at him, barely managing to suppress a shiver of disgust. Something about Bashir turned her stomach, and she edged further away from him. "Yes, of course. I'll, uh…I'll relay your good wishes to him." Nervously, she glanced at her wristwatch. "I suppose I really ought to get back in there, and see if they need any help…"

"See you later, Doc," Connelly promised, with a wink. "Hurry up and save the world; we'll be right here waiting for you."

Callie glanced heavenward in feigned disgust as she set out for the pyramid. Connelly could have sworn, though, that he had caught the faintest trace of a smile hovering on her lips before she managed to escape.

For a few moments, none of the men left in the mess tent spoke, as each contemplated Callie's revelation. Finally, Bashir broke the silence. "This is wonderful news, then, is it not," he asked, looking towards Rais Azziz and Muhammad Hassan, who had so far refrained from comment. His dark eyes were speculative, curious, almost rat-like in their beady intensity, as he stared at the two men.

"It is truly remarkable," replied Azziz. Hassan merely grunted noncommittally. Azziz continued. "The medical team must be so pleased."

"Oh, I'm quite sure they're elated," Akil Hamid assured him, standing up to go. "I think I'll go find John, and fill him in on the good news."

"Give him our regards, Mr. Hamid," Bashir requested, his narrowed eyes sliding over towards the Egyptian scholar.

"I'll do that," replied Hamid, as he left to find his American colleague.

* * *

"My _blood_ will cure the disease?" Imhotep lifted his hand, staring at the back of it as if he could see inside, to the miraculous curative agent that Callie had just informed him existed within. "How? Why?" Apart from the wonder in his voice, that he himself could be the cure he had been searching for, Callie also heard a good bit of skepticism. She had to wonder at that—he had said he was a healer, after all, and even if he was more versed in the homeopathic treatments that some of today's alternative medicine practitioners focused on, he should have at least been aware of the concepts of antibodies and the immune system. 

The scholar in her, though, couldn't pass up the opportunity for expounding upon the miracles of the human body. "If I had to guess, I'd say that you come from the same genetic line as those who managed to survive this virus to begin with. You inherited a natural immunity. Your blood contains antibodies—protein molecules…" She trailed off, seeing his look of confusion. "Um, there is a part of your blood that is able to attack the virus—the disease—and render it harmless. Kill it, in effect." She graced him with a wide smile. "It's really quite remarkable—the miracle cure we'd been hoping to find was right there, all along, inside your body!"

As Callie watched, a strange look worked its way over Imhotep's face, equal parts incredulity, relief, and an inexplicable mirth. Why he would think what she had just said was so funny, Callie couldn't imagine. She took her work very seriously, and although it certainly called for some joy, this momentous event was certainly not _amusing_. But as the seconds wore on, the Egyptian man seemed more and more taken with the hilarity of whatever it was he was thinking, and finally, he could no longer suppress an outright laugh.

Callie stared at him in stupefied amazement. Apart from being incomprehensible, given the gravity of the situation, the deep, rich rumble of laughter transformed him, shaving years off his age, revealing an almost boyish irreverence that danced in the golden brown eyes. She had always been impressed with Imhotep's intelligence and dedication to healing. This side of him, though, the one that had just now been revealed by his laughter, was a new one, one that she had never noticed before. And while she had always recognized, in a sort of academic way, that he was a handsome man, she had not realized, before now, just how lethally compelling that attractiveness could be. He was, quite possibly, one of the most magnificent men she had ever laid eyes on.

But for all that she liked and admired the man, there was an aura of danger and foreboding about him that negated whatever allure he might have held for her, and with a sense of alarm, Callie took a hasty step back. No, he was not the kind of man she was attracted to, not at all. Unbidden, an image of Matt Connelly pushed its way into her mind. Annoyed more with herself than with the Egyptian man, now, her voice took on a note of irritation. "Whatever is so hilarious, Imhotep?"

Struggling to contain the laughter, he finally managed a few words. "That the cure should be…" He chortled again, amazed at the absurdity of it all. "That _I myself_ should be the cure…" He saw that she didn't understand him at all, and shook his head. "That the cure for this lethal disease should be contained in _this body_," his hand made a sweeping gesture over his torso, and he laughed once again. "Never mind—it is not something you would understand, nor could I explain it." He _could_ explain it, of course, but doing so would be unwise. The magnificent irony that his cursed, putrid body—a body that had lain trapped and decomposing in a stone sarcophagus for countless centuries—should contain the miracle that they sought would have to go unexplained. He was so close, now, to completing this task, he would not jeopardize it by either convincing them that he was insane, or worse yet, risk awakening some latent memory within her, or Connelly, or them both.

A change of subject would be for the best. "What will happen now?"

"We'll need to get more blood from you, and Robillard's staff will use it to make up a serum that can be injected into Doug." She glanced towards the young man, who lay sleeping in his isolation tent. "Hopefully, within a day or so, your antibodies will begin to have some effect on the virus in his system, and we'll know if we've got a cure."

She glanced up, her attention caught by the approach of one of Robillard's technicians. She didn't know Maggie well, but based on their brief conversations, liked her well enough. To Imhotep, she said, "This is Maggie. She was one of the lab technicians who made the initial discovery."

Maggie walked up with a smile for them both, setting aside the tray she carried. "Robillard gave us the okay to begin work on the serum." She addressed Callie, since she knew Imhotep couldn't understand her. "I'll need to draw some more blood now, and then a bit more later."

Callie translated, and Imhotep nodded, turning to the American health care worker with a steady regard. He began to speak, then turned to Callie once more. After a brief exchange, Callie smiled, and spoke a phrase in English. Imhotep turned to Maggie once more, and the young woman caught her breath as he took her hand in his. "Thank you." The English was softly accented, the rich baritone curling around the words and giving the simple phrase a seductive tone that sent a shiver all the way to her toes.

"Um, not a problem," she stammered, unable to move her eyes from the captivating golden light in his. "You're welcome, I mean." She cleared her throat as he smiled, turning the full force of his charm on her, well aware of her reaction to him. After a moment, he released her hand, and she slowly lowered it to her side, trying to ignore his charismatic appeal, and not quite succeeding. Still, she was a professional, and it wouldn't do for her to be fawning over him like this. She cleared her throat again, and pulled herself together. "We were pretty happy to make that little discovery ourselves, so thank _you_."

"Are you going to draw that blood now?" Callie tried to hide the sharpness in her tone, irritated despite herself. "I think Doug might like to have that serum sooner, rather than later."

"Of course, Dr. al Faran." Maggie threw her a confused look of apology, not quite sure why the Egyptian doctor was annoyed. "Could you please tell him what I'll be doing?"

Callie spoke a few sentences to Imhotep and he nodded, not flinching when Maggie wrapped the rubber tourniquet around his arm and drew the blood. She filled several vials, placing them carefully into a plastic carrier. Finally, she withdrew the needle and pressed a cotton swab to the tiny wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. When she completed her job, the only evidence left was a small bandage. With a smile, she patted Imhotep's arm and gathered up her supplies.

"Dr. al Faran, if you could just tell him that we'll probably need a bit more blood in a few hours, I'd appreciate it. He's free to go now—Robillard lifted the quarantine on him—but he probably shouldn't wander off too far. We'll need to be able to find him."

"Of course, Maggie," Callie assured her. "I'll tell him. Do you need any help in the lab?"

"Probably not," Maggie told her, "but if you're interested in observing, you can certainly come along. Not every day you see medical history in the making." She glanced once more at Imhotep, ducking her head with a blush when he returned her smile.

With a nod, Callie agreed. "I'll be there in a few minutes, then." In a moment, Maggie had gone, leaving the two of them alone once more. With a frown, she turned to the Egyptian man. "Do you practice that in a mirror, or something?"

His brow knit together in frown of confusion. "What?"

"That smile of yours," she explained, with a wry twist of her lips. "It should be declared an illegal substance. Don't tell me you didn't know exactly how flustered you had that poor girl."

Understanding humor lit his eyes. "Ah," he grinned at her. "I have never thought that appreciation, properly expressed, was wasted effort. She deserved my gratitude. It was she, after all, and her colleague, who discovered this potential cure."

Callie emitted a ladylike snort, although it was in good humor. "I'm sure it's going to take her at least a couple of hours to get over her appreciation for your _gratitude_."

Smiling again, Imhotep stood up from the cot where he had been seated. Looking around the room, he caught sight of Doug, and felt his brief good humor drain away as the weight of the situation pressed down on him once more. If the serum worked, he would have completed the god's task, and would be free. Logic demanded that it _would_ work. Amun-Re would presumably not have charged him with a task that could not be accomplished. Nothing he had done yet had worked; this was all that was left to try. It would _have_ to work. And when it did, there would be nothing left to tie him here. His work would be complete; he could go on. It would be over. That alone should have been enough to make him happy, but instead, he found that it made him unaccountably discontent. He had almost achieved his goal; success was so near that he could sense its presence. Why, then, did he feel that in the most important task, he had failed miserably?

Callie touched his arm briefly, bringing him back to himself. "Imhotep? Robillard's apparently lifted your quarantine. You're free to go, if you want." She noticed the change in his mood, and gave him a sharp look. "Are you feeling all right? Maggie didn't take that much blood, did she? Do you need to sit down again?"

He shook his head. "Do not trouble yourself. I am fine."

She sighed. For a few minutes, there, he had seemed almost human. Now, the indecipherable mask was back in place, and the cold aloofness was once again in his voice. The man was an enigma. "They'd like you to stay fairly close to the pyramid, Imhotep. No wandering off into the jungle, in case you've a mind to. They'll need some more blood within a few hours, they said."

"I will remain nearby."

She nodded, and watched as he left the infirmary. Odd, but she almost felt sorry for him, in some way. She had never in her life met anyone who seemed so solitary, so alone… Shaking off the feeling of inexplicable sadness, she headed for the lab. The best thing she could do for him, for them all, was to help create this miracle, in whatever way she could.

* * *

"Now! The time is _now_!" The sibilant hiss offended his ear, and the spittle that flew from the man's mouth and struck Bashir on the face made him cringe away in disgust. "You heard them as well as I. There _is_ no more time. We act _now_!" 

Bashir swabbed at his face with a dusty handkerchief. "But to act in such haste could jeopardize everything…"

"Waiting for them to develop this cure and then have it flown to Khartoum; _that_ could jeopardize everything, you fool!" The man's face grew even redder, and he made a slashing motion with his hand. "No! The pyramid will be destroyed now—_today_! The pyramid—and everyone and everything associated with this dig—will be wiped off the face of the earth. It is Allah's will, and mine! Do you understand me?"

His leering grin notably absent, Bashir nodded. "So be it, then. I will have my men obtain the specimens and set the explosives in the grotto. You will contact the cell in Khartoum to arrange for our transport out of the jungle, once the objective is complete?"

"I have already done so," the man said, with a self-satisfied sneer. "Our helicopter will arrive just before sundown. Can your men complete their task by then?"

Again, Bashir nodded. "I will personally guarantee it."

"It is good to see you accepting responsibility, Bashir." A thoughtful look crossed the man's face, and he tapped one finger against his chin as he contemplated an additional detail. "I believe I may pay a visit to the infirmary. Our having the virus itself is one thing. If we also were to have in our possession the only known cure…"

"Our leaders will be well pleased with your foresight and attention to detail." Bashir was at his best in situations that called for insincere flattery and gratuitous praise. Once again in his superior's good graces, he decided to beat a hasty retreat, and began backing away from the other man. "I will organize my men. We will take care of the fluid and the pyramid. You will have no cause for worry; it will be done as you have ordered."

"I appreciate your thoroughness, brother," said the other man. He cast a sideways glance at the pyramid, towering over them, its golden bulk shadowing their sinister scheming from the eyes of the camp. Far overhead, the diamond capstone winked at them, its many facets sparkling like tiny, captive suns. "Such a beautiful structure, really. A shame that its days have come to an untimely end..."

Bashir turned and fled. The cackling discord of the other man's laughter followed him, nipping at his heels like the teeth of a rabid dog.

* * *

An hour or more had come and gone since Imhotep had been released from his incarceration in the infirmary. He had passed the time wandering through the camp, even managing to convince himself that his meandering was an attempt—before he was sent on to whatever fate awaited him—to observe and learn. The awesome store of knowledge and technology available to inhabitants of this time staggered him; it was almost too much to comprehend. 

His ploy of self-distraction worked, too, at least for a while, until he caught a flash of burnished auburn hair and spun around—half in hope, half in trepidation—only to find himself staring after one of Robillard's assistants. Eliana was nowhere—she had managed to secret herself somewhere away from the crowded common areas, and he couldn't bring himself to look for her. What good would come of it? Still, her absence was like a gaping wound in the fabric of his soul, and finally, he gave up the pretense of trying to occupy himself with other things and left the commotion of the campsite behind.

When Ardeth found him, the priest was sitting on the ground, knees bent beneath him, perhaps two meters away from the golden wall that formed the far side of the pyramid. It was peaceful here; the hubbub of the camp was blocked by the fathomless bulk of golden stone, the sunlight filtered warm through the leafy green of jungle foliage. Imhotep's eyes were closed, his head tipped slightly back, his hands rested on his thighs. He seemed deep in meditation, almost in a trance.

Hesitant to intrude, Ardeth began to back away, certain that his famed Med Jai stealth had shielded him from discovery. It was said of the Med Jai that they were shadow warriors of the desert, unable to be seen or heard, unless they willed it. He would find the priest later; there was time. The uneasy feeling that had begun to develop days earlier, and grown darker and more menacing ever since could certainly wait for a few more minutes, until the man was done with whatever inner reflection was occupying him.

"You have already disturbed me, Med Jai," the rich baritone snared Ardeth where he stood, the shock of being detected quickly fading into an unwilling respect for the priest's powers of discernment. "That accomplished, you may as well say whatever it is that you have come to say." Imhotep opened his eyes and looked towards the Med Jai, rising to his feet in a single, fluid motion that brought to Ardeth's mind the somewhat disturbing image of a panther drawn from its rest by the scent of nearby prey. "You appear troubled, Bay. What is it that disturbs you so?"

Ardeth approached him slowly, still wary enough of the priest, despite their recent truce, to treat him with delicate caution. "There is something amiss here."

"_Something?_" The priest's laugh was acerbic, riddled with sarcasm. "_Something_ amiss? Tell me, Med Jai—would that _something_ be the disease that plagues the camp? Or perhaps the newly arisen pyramid, its shroud of greenery, and its deadly protectors? Or perhaps it is the fact that you are standing here speaking with your recent mortal enemy, whose undead body you were sworn to keep in its grave. Tell me, Bay, which of those is the _something_ that troubles you? Or shall I continue to list the possibilities?"

Ardeth's scowl darkened his face, drew fine creases through the line of tattoos on his brow. "I see that your release from quarantine has done nothing for your disposition, priest."

With a sigh, Imhotep turned away, staring off into the impenetrable green surrounding them. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he quietly blasted a gaping hole in another one of Ardeth's deep-rooted prejudices. "Forgive me. My mockery was uncalled for, Med Jai."

"It is already forgotten, Imhotep." His reluctant respect for the man growing by another portion, Ardeth accepted the priest's apology. "You must be pleased," he continued, "that a cure has been found."

"A _possible_ cure, Bay. There is no way of knowing, yet, if it will work." Imhotep's bland stare was an effective mask for his inner concern. Everything in him told him that this was the cure, but until Doug began to show improvement, he would not let himself begin to hope too much.

"Still, it is far beyond what you would have dreamed possible, even yesterday," Ardeth countered. "It is a chance; and for that, you must be pleased."

With a slight inclination of his head, Imhotep agreed. "I am." _But that still did not explain what was troubling the Med Jai._ "I assume that this potential cure is not what disturbs you?"

Ardeth smiled, somewhat surprised, as always, at the priest's sardonic sense of humor. In another lifetime, had the situation not been what it was, he could almost say he would have enjoyed the man's company—could have called him a friend. But circumstances were what they were. "No, priest, it is not."

Imhotep quirked an eyebrow at him, obviously waiting for the Med Jai to elaborate. As he waited, he retrieved the shirt he had discarded before his meditation, pulling it over his head and fastening the buttons at the top. When Ardeth still didn't speak, Imhotep made an impatient sound. "Bay, do you plan to tell me or not? Either way, I do not care, but you are clearly troubled…"

"It is not an easy thing to put into words, priest." Indeed, his inability to articulate what it was, exactly, that was bothering him was one reason for his silence. The other reason, if he was honest, was that he was equally disturbed that the only person in the camp who might be able to understand and appreciate what he was about to say had been, up until mere days ago, his sworn enemy. That he was now contemplating confiding in Imhotep was such an incongruity that it amazed him.

"You might begin to try, Med Jai." Clearly, the priest's patience was wearing thin.

"For the past day or two, I have had a sense that something was not right." Ignoring the cynically raised eyebrow, Ardeth kept speaking. "It began shortly after the new group of Sudanese bureaucrats arrived. Each time I see them, I sense something…something _wrong_…" He broke off, once more unable to put into words the exact nature of the threat he perceived. "

"It is true that a person's aura betrays their intent. Good radiates good and conversely, evil projects evil. Unless a person is particularly skilled in concealing their true nature, it is fairly easy to read them." He shrugged. "Your Med Jai forebears bragged about their legendary sixth sense. It does not surprise me that you would share their perceptiveness. Beyond that, I cannot help you. I have not met these men. I do not know what it is you have sensed."

"I have not spoken with them at length, myself," Ardeth admitted. "But in their presence, the air is thick with the presence of evil."

The priest shrugged once more. "I cannot say. I have sensed nothing, but I have spent much of my time since their arrival locked away in the sick room."

"I know." A sigh betrayed the Med Jai's frustration. "I would ask a favor, priest. If you do notice anything…_odd_…in their presence, will you tell me?"

Imhotep inclined his head in agreement. "It is a small service you request, Med Jai."

Ardeth turned to go, still frustrated, still plagued with a vague foreboding. A word from the priest stopped him.

"Wait."

"What is it, Imhotep?" Ardeth turned a questioning eye on the priest, who was doing his best to maintain the ever-present mask of composure. The veneer was growing thinner and thinner, however, and Ardeth had the sensation that if he looked hard enough, he would be able to see the fine cracks that were beginning to mar Imhotep's impenetrable armor plating. _Something_ was working on him, burning through layer after layer of cold aloofness, stripping off the protective barriers he had built around himself over the centuries. Once that iron shell was gone, Ardeth wondered what would become of the man inside. The priest would either be destroyed or become stronger for having passed through life's crucible. There was only so much that one man's spirit could take, and Imhotep's spirit had survived centuries of torment. It was a testimony to his inner strength that he had survived this far. Only time would tell if he could survive the rest.

"You have asked a favor of me, Med Jai," said the priest, not meeting Ardeth's eyes. Instead, he focused on the deepening shadows of late afternoon, watching the play of light and darkness over the jungle growth. Lightness and dark, the eternal struggle, the balance tipping first one way, then the other, as the universe continued its quest for balance.

"I have one to ask of you, as well."

"Go on." Ardeth took a step closer, almost afraid to imagine what would cause a proud creature—_man_, he reminded himself—like Imhotep to ask for help.

Only the slightest twitch of a muscle in his jaw revealed Imhotep's inner turmoil. "If they have indeed discovered a cure for this disease in my blood, my task will have been completed." Filtered sunlight played off the contours of his profile, casting him in contrasting patterns of light and shadow. "That said, I do not know how much time I have left here. The time of choice is surely drawing near…"

"_Choice?_ What choice?"

"I have already explained this to you Med Jai. Days ago." Imhotep's hard tone conveyed his impatience. "When the task was complete, I was to be given a choice—death and the afterlife, or life as a mortal man."

"I knew of no _choice_, Imhotep. You told me that once you completed the task, the curse would be lifted, and you would be free to go on to the afterlife. You spoke of no _choice_ in the matter." _But did it matter? Once, it would have; but did it now?_

"Did I omit that?" A trace of sarcasm was present in his voice; even now, the priest was unable to resist a bit of acerbic humor. "Perhaps so. We had not yet reached our…agreement."

"So what are you saying, Imhotep?" Once again, Ardeth was on uncertain ground. _So the priest had a choice to make. What possible need could he have from a Med Jai in a matter such as that? _"How does this choice of yours come into play here?"

"Truly, Med Jai, I believed until just recently that I had already made my choice. After three thousand years of misery, after being betrayed by the only dream I had left, what better hope than one of final, eternal peace?"

"Imhotep…" The priest held up a hand, silencing Ardeth.

"Please. Allow me to finish." The weary resignation in Imhotep's voice was a clearer indication of his mental state than anything he could manage to put into words. "Yesterday, I began to wonder…I thought that perhaps…perhaps a different choice could be made." He looked at Ardeth, searched the other man's eyes, saw the comprehension there. "I was wrong. There is no other choice. I will go on. There is no reason to stay."

"Why do you say that, priest?" Ardeth's tone was mildly curious. "It seems to me, that if the curse is lifted…"

"The favor I would ask of you, Med Jai, is not your opinion."

Ardeth raised one dark eyebrow at the priest. The man was insufferable, even in the midst of asking for help. Nonetheless, he fell silent.

"I will be gone." His tone brooked no rebuttal. It was a statement of fact—no more, no less. "You, unlike anyone else, understand what has gone on here. You understand Eliana, care for her, even." His hard look silenced Ardeth before he could even form a word. "Do not bother denying it. I have seen it in your eyes when you look at her. It is in your voice when you speak of her."

Unable to voice the lie, Ardeth kept silent, waiting for the inevitable request. When it came, even though the words were anticipated, the shock of hearing them actually given voice made the Med Jai realize just how much truly had changed in the short span of time since Ahm Shere's rebirth.

"Eliana cares for you as well—calls you her friend, turns to you for comfort. She trusts you. Perhaps more." The gruff tone in Imhotep's voice hid the hurt that thought caused him. He watched Ardeth, seeking some reaction to his words. Finding none, he went on. "You seem a man of honor, of integrity. Your willingness to set aside old prejudices, old feuds, even when it meant compromising your loyalty to your order tells me much about the inner code you live by. As strange as it may seem, I believe you are a man who can be trusted to keep his word. And so…" He took a deep breath, and this time did look away from the other man, unable to keep up the façade, unwilling to let the Med Jai see inside. "When I am gone, I would ask that you…look after her, care for her. You know of her past—you can give her the kind of understanding that someone unaware of her history cannot."

"You presume too much, priest," Ardeth warned him, finally breaking the silence that had held him fast.

"You will not do this?" Imhotep sounded almost shocked, so sure had he been of the Med Jai's willing—eager, even—acceptance.

Honesty—as much honesty as possible—was the best strategy here. "It is not I who would refuse, Imhotep. Eliana is a beautiful woman, inside and out. She is intelligent, kind, compassionate… I would be honored to serve as her…protector." It would never happen, though. Ardeth knew Eliana well enough by now to know that she would never allow him to serve as a second-rate substitute for the man she really loved. "But Eliana herself would never hear of it. She is too independent, too proud, too honorable, to allow me to step into a place that can be filled by only one person."

Imhotep made a raw, painful sound that Ardeth supposed was a laugh. "If you imagine that I am that person, Med Jai, you are mistaken."

"Why?" A single word, complex in its simplicity.

"She told me so herself, but a single day past." He could still see the coldness in her face, hear the ice in her heart. Another shaft of pain pierced him.

Ardeth had spoken to Eliana much more recently than that. He knew how much she loved this proud, arrogant man. He knew as well—or could venture a fairly accurate guess—why she had no doubt pushed him away. She had been trying to save him from himself, to save him from her, to give him what she thought he wanted, what he needed. And a blind man could see, just from the pain in his eyes, no matter how desperately he tried to hide it, how deeply the priest loved Eliana. _What a pair of besotted, lovesick fools!_ To finally have a chance at what they had squandered their souls on so long ago, and to foolishly throw it away in a fit of pride, stubbornness, miscommunication and fear.

But Ardeth had made Eliana a promise, and was honor-bound not to betray her confidence. Still…

"You are wrong, Imhotep, so wrong. She will not accept me in the way you suppose." Unable to say more without saying too much, Ardeth turned away, preparing to leave.

"Med Jai, wait." Rough pleading filled the normally imperious voice, but when Ardeth reluctantly turned back, he could still see the stubborn set of the priest's jaw, the defiant pride in his dark eyes.

"Eliana confides in you, trusts you. She obviously cares for you." His hands clenched at his sides. "Why do you refuse this request? I know you return those feelings…"

Ardeth had had enough. "Are you deaf, man?" He was nearly shouting, the sheer pigheadedness of the priest's adamant refusal to see reality finally pushing him over the edge. "Regardless of what I may or may not feel for her, the woman has no feelings for me whatsoever, save friendship. She may trust me, she may confide in me—as a friend—but Eliana has eyes only for you. Her heart is yours—it always has been, it always will be. And fool that you are, you do not even realize what a treasure you are giving away."

"What do you know of this, Med Jai?" Ardeth could hear the anger building in Imhotep's voice, see the flare of it in his eyes. "The woman herself told me that she wanted nothing more to do with me, save for me to disappear from her life. She betrayed me once, in another lifetime. She has rejected me again, in this one. What could you possibly know that could change _those_ facts?"

His voice almost gentle, Ardeth told him. "She lied, Imhotep. She lied." He felt deplorable, betraying Eliana's trust in this way, but in the end, some promises were not meant for keeping. "She believes she is doing something noble, something selfless. She believes that letting you go is the only way to help you find happiness. She loves you—far more than you realize, far more than she will let you see, far more, probably, than you deserve."

"You are wrong, Bay. I am sure you are wrong…" But Ardeth could hear the new note in the priest's voice—a note of uncertainty, perhaps even a note of hope. Then, in the next second, it was gone, displaced by the old arrogance. "You _are_ wrong. But it is obvious that I have erred in my assessment of you." Suddenly, Ardeth found himself facing the priest's back, summarily dismissed. "Leave me. I will find another way to look after her when I am gone."

Ardeth released his breath in a slow hiss. The man's pigheaded obstinacy knew no bounds. And it would cost him, cost him dearly. It would cost Eliana, as well. And _that, _that alone, was enough to raise the Med Jai's ire. He had heard enough idiocy this day. He _would_ leave the priest, leave him to wallow in his sorry self-pity, but not before speaking his mind.

"Many tales have been told about you, Imhotep. Over the millennia, you have become a legend. Your vices and failings are well known among the Med Jai tribes. It is no secret that among them are arrogance, pride, and stubborn, unyielding determination, even in the face of complete impossibility, even in the face of death and damnation." Slowly, Imhotep turned around, and Ardeth's eyes held the priest's, detecting the slow fire of anger that began to build and grow. _Good. It would ensure that he had the man's full attention for this final point._ "But until now—unless you have just recently acquired this new weakness—I was never aware that blatant stupidity should be counted among your shortcomings."

Leaving a dumbfounded Imhotep to ponder that thought, Ardeth turned and walked away.

* * *

"Mr. Connelly." 

The lightly accented voice spoke softly, but it was enough to catch his attention. Connelly paused, waiting as the Sudanese man caught up with him. Muhammad Hassan looked cool, despite the heat of the afternoon sun. There was something vaguely reptilian about the man's eyes, and Connelly could picture him curled up on a rock, soaking up the sun's heat. No wonder he looked cool—lizard blood was pretty damned cold. As always, the man was dressed in a crisp uniform, jet-black hair slicked back from his high forehead, his every button buttoned, and every one of the numerous pins and medals that bedecked his jacket rigidly and squarely secured in place.

_He musta used a level and glued those damn things there_, thought Connelly, looking down ruefully at his wrinkled khaki shirt and equally grubby canvas pants. _GQ_ would surely not be calling on _him_ to model for them any time soon. Unlike the Sudanese officer, Connelly looked like a stereotypical depiction of the slovenly American journalist, slogging through the foreign jungle with mud on his shoes and a hundred pounds of photographic equipment hanging from his neck and arms. No, he would not be winning any best-dressed awards today, or any other day, for that matter. And considering the creative content of the hastily captured snapshots he'd taken with the expensive equipment, he wouldn't be queuing up for a Pulitzer any time soon, either. _Ah, well, at least it's a good cover_, he rationalized, immediately dismissing the momentary abashment over his sorry state of dress, and his lack of creative genius in photography. Matt Connelly was not one to linger over such worries. He knew his way around his computer and his communications gear and his gun, and that was the equipment that mattered, here and elsewhere.

"What can I do for you, Hassan?" Polite, but not too friendly, his tone spoke volumes about the degree of trust he afforded the other man. "Need your picture taken? Gotta tell ya, though, I don't do glamour shots…"

The Sudanese man didn't even crack a smile. "Mr. Connelly, I would like to speak with you about something."

Matt glanced around, then back at the intelligence officer. He leaned close and whispered, as if to impart a great secret. "Um, aren't we doing that?" If he had looked closer, Matt thought he might have seen a forked tongue flicker out and test the air as the taller man looked down his raptor-like nose at him. Clearly, he was not amused at the blasé flippancy typical of Americans. "Okay, Hassan, sorry about the 'tude. I forget how tightly trussed and buttoned-up you are. This is gonna be a private discussion, I take it?"

"That would be preferable, Mr. Connelly," Hassan told him. "We have some matters of…joint interest…to discuss."

"See, I _knew_ you wanted your picture taken," Connelly crowed, heading for the pyramid's arched entry. "Hope you don't mind if I take my work along with me while we have this talk…"

"Oh, I expect you to bring _your work_ with you, Mr. Connelly." Hassan's lukewarm smile left the ice in his eyes untouched. "I would expect nothing less from someone of your…rank. And the pyramid itself is a perfect place to have our conversation."

_Okay, he's got my attention now_, Connelly admitted, his CIA-trained and front-line-duty-attuned senses perking up and awakening to the scent of danger in the air. Surreptitiously patting the bulge in his shirt that hid the revolver secreted there, he shook off his act and unleashed the deadly serious operative it had obscured.

When he looked back at the Sudanese intelligence officer, the glacier blue of his eyes reflected an equal cold. "Let's have that little talk then, Hassan." He made a sweeping bow, as graceful as the awkward load of cameras and satchels would allow, waving the other man ahead of him into the pyramid's murk.

"After you."

* * *

His hands braced on either side of the deep hewn stone doorway, Imhotep watched her work. She was detailed, patient, meticulous, working carefully and thoroughly to copy the hieroglyphics from the mural into the sketchbook she held. It was mundane, tedious work, and he felt a sharp flare of pride that her work standards were high enough to require the painstaking effort she was expending on the task. In his other lifetime, as high priest of Osiris, Imhotep had often lost patience with the younger acolytes, those who were less disciplined and focused, less willing to attend to the details that, when mastered, would carry them with ease into the ranks of the high priests. The priesthood had lost many brilliant, talented men, because of their refusal to pay heed to the small, the ordinary, choosing instead to seek out the grandiose, the awesome. It was only those few, the truly wise, who realized that the commonplace was the foundation upon which the extraordinary was built that had reached the heights of success. Imhotep was among those few. 

Finished for now, Eliana closed the sketchbook, lifting her hand to trace with her index finger the final glyph. It was the ancient symbol for enduring life, the ankh, beautiful in its simplicity and graceful symmetry. _Eternity, everlasting life, the promise of hope and peace and forever…_ It was what had been taken from them both, so long ago. She couldn't blame him for wanting so badly to find it now, no matter the price. Ardeth was wrong—there was no equitable substitute she could offer that would replace what she had already cost Imhotep. It was far too late for that, and she had to let him go, let him move on.

Her hand curled into a fist over the cut stone, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight to hold back the tears. _How simple life had been, only a month ago._ Just a few short weeks had changed her life beyond recognition, and although before, she had been blanketed in a tranquility born of ignorance, she wouldn't change a minute of what had come to pass. The memory of the last few days would be all she had to carry with her into the future, once he was gone. _And how long would that be?_ She, like everyone else in the camp, had heard the miraculous news of the possible cure they had found in his blood. She, like everyone else, had rejoiced—only she had not only been overjoyed for Doug, but for Imhotep as well, because this would surely mean that he had fulfilled the god's demand. _And if that were so, how much longer could he have left?_

Hot tears burned fresh behind her eyelids once more, and her stomach flopped queasily at the thought of never seeing him again. In such a short time, he had become vital to her—almost as necessary as the air she breathed. Suddenly, she wasn't sure she had done the right thing—the cold, angry look on his face, which had been so closely followed by one of freezing indifference haunted her, and she questioned what she had said, what she had done. She had hurt him terribly, she knew—opened poorly healed, still aching old wounds—but at the time, it had seemed the kindest path. Now, she wasn't as sure…

In a sudden fit of anger, with herself and with the hopelessness of it all, Eliana flung the sketchbook and pencil across the room, where they bounced off the far wall and fell to the floor, the pencil broken and the neat sketches mangled and torn. _What did it matter?_ Crossing to the stone bench that faced the mural, she sat, her head resting on her hands, curled in on herself like a withered flower. She felt old, brittle, as if at any moment she would shatter into a million irreparable pieces. With a choking sob, she huddled there, alone in her misery.

He watched for a moment, his knuckles whitening where they lay fisted against the cold stone, until he could stand it no longer. This was not the woman who had left him yesterday—that woman had been coldly cynical, callous and deliberately cruel—the woman before him now was crying as if her heart were breaking. Which was fact, which was fabrication? She believed herself alone now—why should she playact? Suddenly, the Med Jai's words replayed themselves in his head—_She loves you far more than you realize; far more than she will let you see; far more, probably, than you deserve…_

His hesitation lasted only seconds more. Crossing the room slowly—unseen, unheard—he lowered himself to sit beside her on the bench, not touching, not even looking at her when she gave a startled gasp of surprise and straightened, eyes frantically searching his face, devouring his beloved features. "Imhotep?"

He ignored the implied query, instead gazing transfixed at the mural before them. Painted in breathtaking shades of ochre and azure, bright scarlet and deep sable, highlighted in brilliant greens and golds, it set forth the story of one of Egypt's most beloved legends. The artwork itself was extraordinary—Imhotep's admiration for the unknown, long-dead craftsman was profound. Silently, still not looking at her, he reached out and gathered her hand into both of his. "It is the story of Isis and Osiris."

"Yes," she nodded, not bothering to wipe away the telltale moisture from her face, "it is."

"It is beautifully detailed, is it not?" As he spoke, his hands caressed hers, tangling their fingers together, uniting them in at least one small way once again. "Whoever designed this was a truly gifted artist."

"It's magnificent," she agreed, afraid at the degree of joy that surged through her just from his nearness. "But it's a beautiful story; it deserves to be depicted so exquisitely."

"Isis and Osiris—the eternal lovers. Doomed by the treachery of others—Osiris betrayed, murdered, his body destroyed and scattered to the furthest corners of the earth. Isis made an outcast in her own kingdom, doomed to wander in exile, until their love found a way to somehow triumph over the darkness and misery that engulfed them."

Eliana knew full well that he was grossly oversimplifying the myth—there was far more to the tale, and the lines between good and evil, oppressed and oppressor, were not nearly as clearly drawn as his words implied. Yet the dark melody of his voice, the caressing touch of his hands, and the obvious parallel he drew between the gods' story and theirs bound her up in a fine web of magic that she had no desire or will to escape.

"Imhotep…" Her voice was low, husky with unshed tears, and finally he turned to face her.

"Eliana, their love endured, eventually prevailed." One hand left hers, rising to trace one of the mottled tear streaks on her cheek. "Is it only the gods whose love can endure? Why can mere mortals not be blessed so?"

Her mouth worked, searching for the words to express what was in her heart. At a loss, all she could do was offer a garbled, feeble explanation. "Yesterday…," she started, only to begin again. "What I said to you…I'm so sorry…I would never…_could_ never…I didn't mean…"

He waited patiently, his eyes kind, as she groped for the words, but finally she gave up, shaking her head in misery and dropping her eyes from his. "I didn't mean it—any of it. I thought it was for the best, but…"

Two fingers beneath her chin tilted her face upwards once more, and the silent compulsion in his gaze forced her to meet his eyes. There was understanding in the gold-flecked darkness—understanding and forgiveness and…something else. Something that sent hope flooding through her and made her afraid to look away, for fear she had simply imagined it, conjured it up through the depth of her own longing.

"We have both, I think," he speculated, "said things that were perhaps not the truth. As his voice caressed her soul, his hand curved upwards, moving to cradle her cheek, his thumb wiping away the remainder of the tears. "I have been as guilty of this as you, and for reasons, I fear, that were less noble."

She opened her mouth to protest, but one long finger gently trapped her lips, held them shut. "Your lies were well-meaning, if misguided—you sought to give me freedom, the peace I have continually, tediously asserted was my only goal." His eyes now held some degree of self-derision, as well as the continued warmth he directed at her. "My lies, conversely, were ones born of cowardice, anger, pride. They were spoken out of bitterness, hurt…"

"Hurt that _I_ caused," she interrupted. This time, he silenced her with a kiss, the merest touch of his lips against hers.

"It was a lifetime ago, Eliana." That single phrase, coupled as it was with the touch of his mouth on hers, absolved her, wiping the slate clean. "It is over, done, dust blown away by the desert wind."

But still, guilt kept its finger hold on her. "Not so long ago, considering…"

"The past is dead." There was no arguing the stern command in his voice. "Leave it lie where it is, buried under the weight of years." A flicker of molten gold blazed in his eyes, sending a rush of warmth curling through her body. "What matters is the present—now."

Her breath left her lungs in a warm rush, as his head lowered to hers once more, his lips capturing hers, moving lightly, but with inescapable demand over the softness of her mouth. It went on forever, yet ended all too soon, and when he lifted his head, a small sound of protest escaped her.

"Eliana, look at me." For all that his voice was gentle, it was still a command. Reluctantly, her eyes opened, and she recognized the uncompromising determination in his.

"I have told you before, have I not," he began, "that when Amun-Re spoke to me, he said I would have a choice to make, in the end." Her nod answered him, and encouraged him to continue. "In my stubborn folly, my foolish pride, I argued with him, insisted that my choice was already made, my decision cast in stone. My only desire was for peace. Still, the god said, regardless of my resolve, in the end, there would be a choice." He paused, pondering the gods' legendary proclivity towards fickle capriciousness. "I do not know if that opportunity for choice still exists…"

His hands gripped hers with an almost painful strength as his eyes bored into hers. "But if it does, I need the truth, Eliana." He lifted his hand, started to reach for a stray strand of her hair, then changed his mind, instead drawing his palm down over the air in front of her face in that timeless gesture of their love. Emotion swamped her, a lump formed in her throat and the tears threatened once more.

"Tell me the truth, Eliana." The quiet timbre of his voice was compelling, beautiful, its rich melody drawing the truth from her heart, coaxing it from her soul. "Is there a reason for me to alter my choice? Shall I tell the god that I wish to stay?"

He drew away, not touching her at all now, not wanting to influence her answer in any way. He wanted the truth, needed it; and no matter what answer she gave him, he would have it be an honest one.

Once again, as she had the night at the pool, Eliana stood poised on the precipice of uncertainty. But unlike that last time, she now knew exactly what she stood to gain—and what she could lose. Dishonesty would buy her nothing, now. The only currency of note was the complete, utter truth. Drawing in a breath, she stepped over the edge.

"Yes, Imhotep, there is a reason." Her eyes locked with his, the moisture of unshed tears clouding her vision. Slowly, with an initial awkwardness that quickly gave way to a graceful simplicity, as some unawakened portion of her being stirred into life, Eliana returned the same gesture of love, her heart soaring when she saw the answering hope flare in his eyes.

"I would not hold you here unwilling, Imhotep, but when the god allows your choice, make it knowing that I love you with all my heart."

With infinite tenderness, he lifted his hands, cupping her face gently. "Thank the gods," he whispered, his lips drifting closer to hers. "Thank you, my love, for your honesty, and for your faith." His thumbs drew lazy circles on her cheekbones, and his head slowly inched lower until only a breath separated them. This close, she could see the individual striations of gold in the deep mahogany of his eyes, feel the warmth of his breath on her face, sense the tension he had held tightly in check while he waited for her answer—tension that he only now began to release. With her answer she found her own peace, and as he drew nearer her eyes fell closed and she tipped her face to meet his lips.

He answered the unspoken invitation, claiming her mouth in a kiss that was soft, gentle, the lightest of caresses. But underneath those tender emotions lay a darker passion and an undeniable hunger. This kiss, unlike any he had bestowed before, was more than a physical caress. It was a declaration of ownership, a claim on her heart and soul. And with no second thoughts, no regrets, no doubts, she put her arms around him, pulled him close, and threw wide the door, allowing him to take possession of both.

The kiss went on for long moments; a simple mingling of mouths, of breath, until with a flicker of moist heat, his tongue traced the seam of her lips, demanding a deeper response that she was only too eager to provide. His arms went around her, his hands weaving their singular black magic over her senses as they tunneled under the rich fall of her hair to caress the nape of her neck, pulling her even closer to his solid strength before running possessively down the curve of her spine and from there coming to rest on her upper arms, holding her tight in a grip that she had no desire to escape.

Tearing his mouth from hers, Imhotep's lips trailed fire down her neck, pausing to feel the rapid beating of her pulse in the scented hollow of her throat. The perfume she wore was exotic, a blend of musk and spice that ostensibly heralded from India, but that called to mind the fragrance favored by Anck-su-namun so many centuries ago in Egypt. Its essence was a perfect blend of old and new, innocence and wantonness, sin and salvation, and the perfume's aura combined with the feel of Eliana in his arms wrapped around Imhotep's senses, choking off reason and sanity and everything but a burning, raging need. A low moan escaped her as his hands moved, his long artist's fingers teasing out the first notes of the melody they could make with their bodies, wrapping her in the mute splendor of the silent adagio he played with his hands and his lips.

"Oh!" Callie's voice struck a discordant note in the harmony. Her face flamed as she burst into the room and took in the scene she had interrupted. "Oh! Excuse me! I'm so sorry…" Mortified, she stepped backwards, turning her head, averting her eyes from what had obviously been a very intimate exchange. In that moment, if she had been guaranteed that it would quickly melt her into an unnoticed puddle on the floor, she would have gladly injected herself with the dreaded virus. Instead, all she could do was try to exit as quickly as possible. Gracefully was no longer an option. "Uh, whenever you're…um, finished talking, or…" _Damn it! Pull yourself together, Callie!_

"Uh, they need more blood, Imhotep, as soon as it's convenient for you. We'll be in the lab." The last sentence was a barely coherent mumble as, without waiting for a response, she turned and fled back down the hallway.

Smiling ruefully, Imhotep pulled away from Eliana, once again taking her hands in both of his. With a look that would have melted stone, he gazed deep into the pure green of her eyes, and gave her one last, lingering kiss. "I must go for a little while. You will be here?"

She shook her head. "I was done here. I'll be in one of the other rooms—I'm not sure which one until I find Dad..."

"I will find you, my love," he promised, running his hand over the shining auburn of her hair. "We are not finished, yet, with this discussion." His grin was almost boyish, but the deliciously wicked light in his eyes was that of a man full-grown.

Eliana felt a shiver of anticipation pass through her as she returned the smile. "I'll hold you to that promise, Imhotep." With one last caressing touch of his hand, he stood and turned to leave.

He was almost out the door when Eliana sensed the chill in the room, felt the first touch of foreboding. She shivered again, but this time from some sixth sense that warned of impending misfortune. Her voice shrill with worry, she called out to him. "Imhotep?"

He turned back, puzzled at the strange tone in her voice. "What is it, my love?"

She shook her head, irritated with her sudden bout of uncontrolled panic, and attempted a reassuring smile. "Never mind—it's nothing, just…" He lifted an eyebrow in question, and she shook her head. "No, nothing. Just…I love you."

His answering smile was more precious to her than water to a man dying of thirst. His eyes were dark with secret promise, as the rich music of his voice reached her ears. "I know, my love, I know. I will be back."

In a whisper of movement, he was gone, and the empty silence of the room seemed to echo with mocking laughter.

* * *

Bernstein paused, listening to the sounds that swam towards him through the stagnant air of the pyramid's lower levels. The whispers drew him more surely than voices speaking in normal tones would have. The sound skittered over the stones like the feet of insects, like the rattling of a viper's tail. It called to him, beckoned, lured him like a siren's call past the barricade and down into the damp tunnel leading to the grotto. 

_Idiots_, he thought, more annoyed than anything else. Everyone knew they were not to be anywhere near the grotto. _What could possibly be so important down there that someone would risk contracting the terrible disease, even if a potential cure hovered on the horizon?_

Heeding an inner sense that warned caution, Bernstein moved quietly down the corridor. The sounds escalated, bouncing off the damp stone and rising in an eerie crescendo. Still too far to make out distinct words or voices, Bernstein edged closer, surprised to discover that he was holding his breath. _What was going on down there? And more importantly, who was down there?_

He was perhaps two meters away from the entrance to the grotto, hidden in the bog-like dank of the narrow tunnel, when he could distinguish the sounds. Two voices, both touched with the vocal highlights typical of natives to Sudan, both speaking in whispered Arabic.

"_Hurry with filling those vials! I still need your assistance setting the explosives!"_ The speaker sounded harried, impatient, annoyed with his slow-working comrade.

"_Patience is a virtue, my brother."_ An indistinct curse. _"Allah himself would be moved to anger if he had to wear all of these layers…"_

Soft laughter. _"Better to wear the layers, than risk infecting yourself."_

_"I will be glad to finish this and return to Khartoum. This place has a bad feel to it…"_

"_Spare me, brother. Do not begin to throw around your talk of curses, again. Please." _An evil chuckle. _"Where Ahm Shere is concerned, _we_ are the only curse afoot."_

"_I am almost finished here. How many minutes have you put on the timer? We need time to get out of here and reach the rendezvous point…"_ Was that a trace of worry in the soft voice?

"_When we are finished placing them, I will put sixty minutes on the timer. No one comes here, they will not think to look for a bomb."_ A hiss of something that could have been a snicker. _"No one will even be concerned. They will go about their business as usual until…"_

The other voice cut in. _"Until they are called to meet their maker."_

"_They are infidels,"_ Bomb-Setter corrected him. "_They _have_ no maker. They do not know the true god."_

"_May Allah have mercy on their souls, then,"_ Vial-Filler amended. _"I am finished here."_ A pause. _"You think the others have managed to place the evidence that will cast blame on the American?"_

"_Yes. Bernstein himself will be held responsible for the second death of Ahm Shere. History will carry tales of his infamy."_ Another sound of impatience. _"Now come and help me with this. I want to be well away before this place implodes." _

Bernstein sagged against the wall, oblivious to the cold, mindless of the damp, heedless of everything but the pounding of his heart. _An hour? In an hour, Ahm Shere would be destroyed? Who were these men? Why would they do this? How could he stop them?_ He couldn't just sit back and watch while they destroyed his life's work, the most important thing in his life…

No, _not_ the most important. Second-most important, perhaps—but a distant second, at that.

"Ellie." A mere thread of sound, the whispered name hit the dead air in the tunnel and died itself, carrying nowhere, not betraying his presence.

_Where was she? Was she still in the room with the mural? Did he have time to find her, get her out of there, and still find help?_ Backing up a step, he dislodged a largish pebble, sending it bouncing down the sloping stone floor. There was a thick coating of muck, which muffled the sound, slowed its trajectory, but didn't stop it. Reaching the drop-off at the end of the tunnel, it fell with a splash into the water. Holding his breath, feeling the pounding in his brain with every pulsing beat of his heart, Bernstein continued to scuttle backwards, moving crablike back towards safety and light. He heard the voices again, slightly louder now.

"_What was that?"_ Alarm, anger, fear.

"_Nothing. Probably a rat. No one comes here—they are too afraid of the virus, and probably too afraid of the same shadows and spirits and curses as you. Now stop your cringing and get on with your work!"_

The voices faded away into the gloom as Bernstein reached the top portion of the tunnel. Judging himself safe, he began to move more quickly, finally breaking into a dead run when he reached the antechamber. He had to find Ellie, get her out of there, and find someone, anyone, who could help him._ But who? Who?_

A cold sweat drenching his clothing, a sick misery lodged in the pit of his stomach, the clock now ticking away the final moments of his dream, Bernstein set off on a race with time. Each step, each heartbeat, was one more second stolen.

* * *

Having fed the final thread into her loom, Fate leaned back, gnarled hands resting on bony legs. A shadow of a smile ghosted her thin lips as she watched the tapestry itself seem to shudder with burgeoning life. At some point, the creation always became the creator, wresting itself away from her hands and refusing to be guided further. Such was the case now. The loom whirred, the threads continued to interweave, the pattern blossomed, grew. An ancient such as she knew the limits of her own powers, and she had reached them now. 

As she sat back, preparing to watch the ending act of a play millennia in the making, the weathered old crone smiled again as a stray shaft of sunlight gilded the patterns now forming before her eyes, for a moment turning them bright and shining and beautiful. In less than a second, it had faded, shifting away and illuminating other unfinished pieces in her workroom, leaving this particular creation beclouded and vulnerable to the dark once more.


	22. Chapter 22

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

_If you stand only on the safety of the banks spearing fish, how can you know the depths of the river? Can you fathom the darkness under a ledge of rock or understand the life of the fish writhing on your spear? You mistake the teeth of the crocodile as the edge of the abyss, but the chasm is more terrible than teeth, and certain._

_I fulfill the law and the law demands your blood. I am Sebak the crocodile, the catastrophe, the devourer, the necessity. Impaled on my teeth, you shall be blessed for you will glimpse truth. I am only the secrets of your own dark heart, your lust, your greed, your anger, your flesh. As long as you breathe, I shall exist to snatch you from yourself, to grind your bones and chew your flesh, to tear the darkness from your heart. I am the living power of water, the cry that catches in the throat, the sob that shatters stone._

_On my teeth you smell the stink of flesh. To you I seem a living horror. But I tell you in truth, I am your own soul and it is with great sorrow that I crush the life you have made. I weep with the loss, but you do not believe. Such destruction is madness, you say. You do not understand. Is it madness to cut the wheat so that bread can be made? When you were born into this bright land, did you not weep for the lost dark of the womb? Whether or not you understand the law, you exist because of it._

_When you've reached the lips of the great devourer, you are staring into the jaws of creation._

_--Excerpt from "Becoming the Crocodile", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

There was a spring to his step and a lightness in his heart that Imhotep hadn't felt in an age or more. Had he been the type who whistled as he walked, he would have. That sort of display, though, had never been a part of the repertoire of iron self-discipline he adhered to as high priest of Osiris, so his newfound hope showed only in the relaxed happiness of his face and the smiling lightness in his eyes.

They had their chance. Finally—_finally_—fate had turned a smiling countenance upon them instead of continually tying knots in the thread of their lives. Amun Re would allow him to stay here with her. He had to; even a god could not be so cruel as to dangle a feast in front of a starving man and then callously take it away.

She loved him. Even now, those words rang in his ears, warmed his heart, filled his soul. She loved him. No three words had ever meant as much to him. He let her words replay themselves in his mind—the soft, husky sweetness of her voice turning them into an almost physical caress. _"When the god allows your choice, make it knowing that I love you with all my heart."_ She loved him.

For a split second, Imhotep's eyebrows pulled together in a small frown. Had he told her that he loved her in return? He thought he had, but… Calling upon his almost photographic memory, he replayed the entire conversation in his head. _No, he had not. At least not this time._ He knew he had started to, on at least one other occasion, but not this time… With a groan, Imhotep mentally cursed his stupidity at the omission, determined to rectify it at once when he saw her again. He would tell her he loved her so many times she would tire of hearing it, show her that he loved her in any way he could imagine. A smile curved his lips as he pondered the limits of his imagination—he was, after all, an imaginative man, and would delight in testing the limits of his creativity. And if that was not sufficient, dignity be damned, he would climb to the top of this accursed pyramid and shout it over the plague-infested depths of the wretched jungle.

But that would have to wait. For now, he would have to settle for appeasing the needs of these modern healers, and let them bleed him once more. Turning a corner, he headed down the passageway leading to the infirmary.

"Imhotep." His name bounced off the walls, ricocheting down the corridor like a stray bullet. Startled, he met the Med Jai's worried look with a frown of his own.

"Bay." Even now, after all that had happened, even considering the strange degree of intimacy that had sprung up between these two unlikely allies, Imhotep had a difficult time unbending enough to take the note of distant censure from his voice. "You seem harried, Med Jai. Additional troubles?"

"The same troubles, Imhotep, only amplified." Ardeth caught up with the priest and fell into step beside him. "Have you seen Bernstein or any of the Sudanese diplomats?"

"I have not." A wry twist of his lips served to bridge the self-erected barrier somewhat. "I have spent the past hour heeding your sound, if less-than-tactful advice."

Taken aback by the priest's candor, Ardeth stopped short. "And?"

"I am in your debt, Med Jai." The answer was not a direct one, but the implication was unmistakable. It was reinforced by the self-satisfied gleam in the priest's eyes and the persistently lurking smile that threatened to offset the stern expression he seemed to favor.

Ardeth couldn't quite stop the brief pang he felt at Imhotep's words. For a short while, long ago—had it been only days?—he had almost let himself imagine… _But no matter._ The universe, no doubt, was unfolding exactly as it should.

"I am glad, Imhotep." In a spontaneous gesture of camaraderie that surprised both men, he clapped Imhotep on the shoulder. "Truly. I am glad for the both of you. And there is no debt—if anything, consider it a debt owed you that has now been repaid." Awkwardly, he pulled his hand away, not sure what had prompted him to react in the way he had—as he would have reacted to this sort of news from one of his friends—one of his brothers.

"My thanks to you, then, Med Jai." But Imhotep was uncomfortable with the odd sense of fellowship as well, and quickly steered the conversation into a less personal realm. "You are still troubled by the Sudanese?"

"Not just the Sudanese anymore. There is something happening in the camp. The Sudanese have almost all disappeared, somewhere; Bernstein is nowhere to be found, and…."

"They have not gone into the jungle, have they?" Imhotep hadn't taken any of them for fools, particularly Bernstein, but…

"I do not know." Ardeth considered it for a moment. "I do not think so."

They had reached the doorway leading into the infirmary. It was oddly noisy inside; whereas before, the sickroom had had an almost church-like quiet to it, the sound of raised voices now disturbed the calm. Ardeth quirked an eyebrow at Imhotep, who merely shrugged and stepped inside the door.

And entered chaos.

Medical personnel scrambled everywhere, some milling around, some digging through supplies and containers and the small refrigerator unit, others simply wandering aimlessly, trying to look needed. On the far side of the room, a red-faced Robillard was screaming at Maggie and Phyllis, one fisted hand pounding against the palm of the other as he verbally bludgeoned them. A lone beacon of tranquility, Jean Godfrey spoke quietly to him, obviously trying to get him to calm down enough to listen to what the two technicians were trying to tell him. Doug, looking marginally better, was propped up in his bed, still hooked up to the squid-like tentacles of medical equipment and monitors. An additional IV bag now hung among the others—a single, small bag of yellowish, antibody-containing fluid dripping hope into his veins, along with the antibiotics and saline that had been running steadily into him for days now.

Amid the bedlam, no one noticed the two interlopers, except Callie, who had been waiting for at least one of them. Moving in her typically quick but graceful manner, she came to meet them, her voice pitched purposely low, so as not to carry across the room. "Thank goodness you're here. There's been an incident…"

"What has happened?" Ardeth was loath to interrupt her, but the niggling worry he'd harbored for days was beginning to explode into a cancerous specter of dread, mutating and growing and displacing everything but the hideous threat of its own reality. "What is wrong?"

"I hate to say it—and no one is exactly sure how or when it happened—but all the vials of Imhotep's blood that Maggie drew earlier have disappeared somehow. They used one or two to create the plasma infusion for Doug, but they were storing the others…wanted to send them back to the lab in Khartoum, and from there to Geneva." Her dark eyes swung from Ardeth to Imhotep. "They were going to draw more blood from you to continue Doug's treatment." Nervously, her eyes moved again, this time to glance at the equipment-filled bubble that housed Doug. "But now they're gone."

"This was an accident? Or a deliberate theft?" Imhotep refused to jump to conclusions—that the Med Jai was so anxious was bad enough. At least one of them needed to remain calm.

The ebony curtain of her hair swung back and forth as Callie shook her head. "They don't know. Right now, Robillard's treating it as an accident—assuming that someone misplaced the vials—but we've looked almost everywhere, and they haven't turned up yet. It's beginning to seem like it wasn't an accident after all."

"But why would someone steal blood?" Imhotep mused. Just one more strange thing to add to the list of oddities and eccentricities surrounding this modern society. Blood was powerful, a potent ingredient in any number of rituals, spells, and even potions, but he had already become convinced that men of the twenty-first century held little awe and less belief in the old arts and customs, especially magic. To modern man, it was science or nothing—no compromises, no arguments. Just cold, deductive reasoning and calculating logic. It was a pity, really—the universe held so much more, if they would simply open their eyes to its wonder.

"It wasn't just _blood_, Imhotep." Callie corrected him. "It was _your_ blood—and a possible cure to one of the most deadly diseases ever known to man. Any number of people would pay a considerable amount of money for something like that—and most of them for no good reason."

"They would have no reason for doing so? Then why would they…" The idiosyncrasies of the Hebrew language were sometimes still a puzzle to him.

"No, no." Ardeth cut in impatiently. "She means their reasons would not _be_ good ones. Moral ones. Ethical, honorable reasons. A number of people could use something like the antibodies in your blood to do very bad things."

Comprehension dawned, and Imhotep turned back to Callie. "Who has been here since then? Or are the healers themselves under suspicion?"

Again, she shook her head. "I don't think so. Like I said, Robillard's treating it like an accident so far." Thinking back, she recalled, "But there were a couple of visitors shortly after you left, now that I think about it. A few of the government representatives showed up, asking Robillard for a tour of the lab. I thought it was a little strange at the time, given the total lack of interest they've shown so far, but then again, with a possible cure right at our fingertips, I can understand why they'd suddenly be interested…"

"The Sudanese." Ardeth's bad feeling kept expanding, and he exchanged a quick look with Imhotep. The priest wore his usual impassive expression, but he inclined his head in a slight nod. It seemed as though the Med Jai's intuition was proving reliable after all. "How long ago were they here?"

"An hour, maybe two, I guess. Honestly, I didn't pay much attention to them." Callie sounded more worried than she had. "You think they took the vials? Don't you think someone would have noticed?"

"I don't know, Doctor al Faran." Ardeth answered her. To Imhotep, he said, "I am going to find them. No one was outside—they must be in the pyramid somewhere." In a swirling spiral of black robes, he started out the door, only to stop just as suddenly. After a moment's hesitation, during which time he steadfastly refused to look back over his shoulder, he added. "I would be grateful for your assistance, Imhotep."

Imhotep would have gone with the Med Jai—he started to, in fact, but Callie's hand shot out, stopping him before he had gone more than two paces. "Where are you going? We need more blood now—Doug's going to need another treatment at any minute."

Torn, Imhotep glanced between the two of them—the doctor and the Med Jai—both of them needing his assistance, both of them deserving it, in one way or the other. But the Med Jai's concerns, for all that circumstance had added more weight to them than they had carried before, were suspicions only. Callie's concern was real, and substantial, and lying in a bed across the room from him. Imhotep's decision was made for him. "Bay, this will not take long. I will join you as soon as I am able."

Ardeth's only answer was a terse nod, before he hurried away down the corridor. Suddenly wondering whether or not his decision had been the correct one, Imhotep turned back to Callie. "This can be done quickly?"

She nodded. "I'll draw the blood myself. They're still occupied, anyway," she added, indicating with a tip of her head the still-arguing medical staff. "It won't take long at all. Come on."

He followed her into the room, ignoring the pandemonium as best as he was able.

* * *

"So _you're_ with _us_?" Connelly leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his photographic equipment lying in a forgotten heap on the stone floor. "One of the good guys?" 

Hassan's smile was almost non-existent, a barely perceptible twitch of his thin lips. "That would depend on your perspective, and who you are asking, Mr. Connelly."

"I don't much give a damn what the other team thinks about it, Hassan." Connelly shot back, straightening up and looking the other man in the eye. "My loyalty is to the good old U.S. of A., and its citizens, in whatever little corner of the world they happen to be digging up. You're either on our side, or you're not."

"My loyalties are to my government, Mr. Connelly." Hassan's eyes were black chips of ice as he set the record straight. "But to that end, you and I are working towards the same goal. My government has no use for these fundamentalist religious zealots, either. They are a liability to us, to our goal of creating a place for ourselves in the global economy, the global community. We want them stopped, as do you and your government."

"The enemy of my enemy…" Connelly started, and Hassan smiled again, the expression—thin-lipped and brittle though it was—strikingly incongruous on his grimly set features.

"…is my friend," the Sudanese man finished. "Exactly so."

* * *

"Ellie!" Her father burst into the room, out of breath and out of patience. "Thank God!" He grabbed her arm and began pulling her out of the room, away from her tools and the work she had been doing. "Come on," he urged, impatient with her resistance. "We have to get out of here now!" 

Eliana made a grab for her supplies, pulling away from him. "Dad," she protested, "what's the matter with you?" The wild-eyed man yanking on her arm was not the distinguished, dignified scientist she had known all her life. A jolt of the foreboding she had felt just minutes before ran through her again.

"No…time, Ellie," he puffed, struggling for breath. "We have…to get…out of…here. They've set…a bomb."

That got her moving. She abandoned her supplies, taking her father's arm and hurrying out the door with him. A barrage of questions pelted his back as she followed him out the room's arched doorway. "Who? A bomb? In the pyramid? But why?"

"I don't…know, Ellie." The jog through the pyramid, compounded by the adrenalin surge and his overpowering fear had taken its toll on John Bernstein, and he looked much older than his fifty-odd years. "I heard them talking…in the grotto. Arabic—Sudanese accent—someone wants to…obtain the virus and then…destroy the pyramid."

"What can we do?" Her mind was racing; the pyramid was her father's life's work. For it to be destroyed… "How much time? Do you know?"

"They said…hour…on timer."

"An hour…" Thankfully, there weren't many people in the pyramid—the workers were mostly outside—but the students, and the medical team, and Doug, and…_Imhotep_. "The infirmary! Dad—we have to warn them, get them out of here!"

"I know, Ellie, I know—I'll go there as soon as I get you safely out of here." He had caught his breath sufficiently by now to be more coherent. Eliana understood his need to get her out of the pyramid, but there was no way she was going to leave the doomed structure until she was certain Imhotep was out, as well.

"Dad, there are at least a half-dozen students in here, too, and I don't know where they've all been assigned. You need to get to them—I can go to the infirmary. It's on the way out, anyway." They were almost at the juncture of several passageways—one led up and out, past the hallway leading to the infirmary, the other led down to the stairway leading to the great hall and beyond that, to the grotto, the others branched out in various directions, leading to other rooms and chambers. It was a giant maze—and if they didn't hurry and get everyone in here out, it would become a giant tomb, as well.

"Damn it Ellie, I don't want to leave you in here!" But Bernstein knew that she was right. He knew where everyone was working—at least where everyone was _supposed_ to be working—and it would be quicker for him to locate them and get them out. Eliana certainly had enough time to get to the infirmary and get out. But she was his only child, his flesh and blood, and leaving her alone in here went against his every instinct.

Gently, Eliana took his hand. "Dad. It's not like I'm going to take my time, here. I'll go straight there and then head straight out, okay? You need to get to your students."

With a nod, he acknowledged her logic. "You're right, of course. But you get out of here as soon as possible—there's no telling how much time is left."

A voice from the passageway leading to the outside had them spinning around, seeking its source. A darker shadow separated itself from the dimness of the corridor, and Tariq Bashir oozed out from the passageway. A concerned frown lengthened his already overlong face, narrowed his too-beady eyes. "What's this Professor? Get out? Not much time left?" He looked from one to the other, a pained expression taking the place of the frown. "Whatever is wrong?"

Eliana felt her scalp crawl, and a shiver of fear passed through her. Bashir had never been high on her list of favorites—she had even preferred Mousa to him—but never before had she felt such an overpowering sense of dread in his presence. A quick glance at her father proved that he, too, was dismayed to encounter Bashir. The voices in the grotto had been colored with Sudanese accents—they were _surrounded_ by Sudanese—it could have been anyone at all that he had heard. And Bashir was certainly a prime candidate for evil-doing.

"Professor? Ms. Bernstein? Are you all right?" Bashir took a step closer. His eyes narrowed further. "Do tell me what is wrong."

Bernstein was clearly torn. Obviously, Bashir could have been one of the voices in the grotto, in which case Bernstein and Eliana were in peril. On the other hand, perhaps he was simply an annoyingly ingratiating, simpering bureaucrat who needed to be dragged out of the pyramid as well. _But which was it?_ The conflicting choices waged a brief war in Bernstein. Finally, though, he reached the only conclusion he could. He would have to take the chance. If Bashir was innocent, they could not leave him in here.

Even so, he could still be circumspect about it. "We've discovered a…fault…in the pyramid's structure." It was a small lie, in Bernstein's mind. A bomb could certainly be considered a fault. A big one. "It is imperative that everyone evacuate the structure at once. Staying inside is too dangerous." Walking forward, wearing what he hoped was a self-assured, calm expression, Bernstein made to walk past Bashir, gesturing for the other man to precede him.

Bashir took a step sideways and back, a move reminiscent of a sidewinding snake. For a tall, lanky man, Bashir moved in a surprisingly sinuous, reptilian way. Like a snake, his hand struck out, catching Bernstein on the forearm. "A fault, you say? What sort of fault?"

_Was that a trace of suspicion in Bashir's voice?_ Bernstein couldn't be sure, so he continued holding his cards close. Sometimes the only good move was a bluff. "A _fault_. A defect in the structure's integrity, man." He let his annoyance seep through into his voice. "Do I need to define it further? We're all in danger if we don't get out of here."

Bashir's hand didn't move. If anything, it tightened even more on the archaeologist's arm. "A defect, eh? This defect just…appeared, then? After five thousand years, the pyramid is suddenly unsafe? How…amazing."

Intuition warned Bernstein to get away from the man. There was something wrong here, deeply wrong. He shook off Bashir's hold. "I will not debate this with you, Bashir. Get out or not, the choice is yours. But you were warned." He stepped forward, intending to shove past the bureaucrat.

He found himself staring into the barrel of a gun. "I think not, Professor." Bashir's thin lips were now set into a leering grimace that didn't even attempt to look anything but evil. With a small flick of his wrist, he motioned for Bernstein to retreat.

The archaeologist had no choice, not with the business end of a mean-looking semiautomatic pointed at his nose. And not with Eliana standing right behind him. _Damn it, damn it!_ So Bashir _was_ in on the plot. "What the hell, Bashir?" His only option was to continue the bluff. "Have you gone insane?"

"Not at all, Professor. I am perfectly sane. And perfectly aware of the only little…_fault_…in the pyramid's design. You are referring to the bomb in the grotto, of course." Bashir continued to advance, forcing Bernstein backwards until he was standing next to Eliana. She stood silent, watching Bashir as he flicked his wrist again, encompassing both her and her father in the gun's arc. That Bashir had finally tipped his hand, revealed himself as one of the miscreants, didn't surprise her. The man's malevolence surrounded him like a tangible aura—a palpable odor of rot and evil that polluted whatever space he happened to inhabit. Still silent, she watched as he indicated with another wave of the weapon that he wanted them to move. "Unfortunately for you, since you also seem to be aware of the structure's recently acquired shortcomings, you won't be leaving it again." He stopped to chuckle at his own wit. "Let's go, then, shall we?"

"Why are you doing this, Bashir?" Bernstein turned towards the passageway Bashir had waved at, pushing Eliana ahead of him and starting down the sloping tunnel that led to the grand hall, and from there, down to the grotto. "Why would you possibly want to destroy a national treasure like this?"

"This treasure is a worldly one, Professor. My brothers and I care not for the things of this world." A maniacal gleam shone from his eyes, the single-minded fervor of the true believer. "Our treasure is in heaven, with Allah, and the reward he has promised us for bringing the infidels to their knees and spreading the true faith to every corner of this evil globe is a great one."

"And destroying Ahm Shere will accomplish that goal?" Bernstein walked slowly, continuing to keep himself between Eliana and the gun. "I don't follow your logic, Bashir."

"The pyramid is collateral damage, Professor." A poke in the ribs with the gun's barrel ordered Bernstein to pick up the pace. "Our goal is the weapon it contains. A weapon that will give us supreme power of life and death over our enemies."

There was only one thing in the pyramid that could be considered such a weapon. "The virus."

"How astute of you, Professor." Bashir snickered. "Such an intelligent man you are proving to be. It will be almost a pity when you meet your end here."

"At least let Eliana go, Bashir." Bernstein begged, not caring that the pleading tone in his voice betrayed his fear. "She has nothing to do with this. She's no threat to you."

"Dad…" Eliana's protest died with the stern look that Bernstein gave her. A sick misery filled her, not just for her fate and her father's, but for everyone else trapped inside. No one else would know; no one else could be warned. They were unknowingly sitting inside their own grave. _Imhotep_… She choked back a sob, realizing that once again, they had lost. But it was possible…maybe he could escape, get out of the pyramid in time… She closed her eyes briefly, putting every ounce of her soul into a heartfelt plea for him to go, to run, to get out. She doubted her telepathic ability, but perhaps the gods would show her at least one final kindness, and somehow get her message through to him. _If it was her time, so be it. But Imhotep…_

Bashir's disgusted snort brought her back to herself. "What do you take me for, Bernstein? Of course she's a threat. She knows what our plan is; she can identify me. She will meet the same fate as you." The gun prodded into Bernstein's ribs again. "Now get moving. As you seem to be aware, we're running short on time."

* * *

"Shit!" Connelly moved away from where he had been flattened against the cold stone of the corridor. They had almost barged in on Bashir's little party—only luck and the fact that voices carried so well down the pyramid's narrow stone corridors had managed to warn them in time to stay hidden. "Shit, shit, _shit_!" 

Hassan was just opposite him, similarly plastered to the rock wall. "I echo your sentiment, however crudely expressed it may be." His eyes were pinpoints of reflected light in the dimness of the corridor. "We're now dealing with a hostage situation."

"Brilliant summation, Ace." Connelly glared at him. "Any suggestions on how we fix this? We've got hostages; we've got a bomb. Gee, which one will you take?"

Hassan arched an eyebrow and looked down his patrician nose at Connelly. "The bomb."

Clearly, this was not the answer Connelly had expected. Caught midway between reaching for his gun and looking down the passageway Bashir and his captives had taken, he swiveled back around to face Hassan. "You will? Handle the bomb, I mean? You have experience in explosives? Think you can manage to defuse it?"

Hassan shrugged. "I won't know until I see it, but I have the experience and the training to handle almost anything I've seen so far. We know where it is, we know who we're dealing with…"

"Maybe _you_ know that. All I know is that they're a bunch of religious kooks with a doomsday fetish and they've planted a bomb in the grotto."

"Then you know approximately as much as I do, Connelly." Hassan was unperturbed, his composure completely unruffled. He was exactly the sort of person Connelly would have expected, now that he thought about it, to be able to defuse a bomb…or to plant one in the first place. He was stone-faced, calm, and completely, deadly serious. "They are religious fanatics—a fundamentalist fringe group, working at odds with the mainstream Sudanese government. Their fanaticism stems from their belief in a heavenly reward for obeying their god's command to wipe the earth clean of infidels—and they define infidels as anyone who does not believe with the same fervor as they."

"Well, I'll tell ya what, Hassan. I don't know what god they worship, but that's not the kind of thing my God approves of…"

"Nor does mine, Connelly." Hassan assured him, watching and waiting as the American checked to ensure that his gun was loaded and ready. "Nor does mine."

His weapon ready, Connelly looked at the Sudanese man. "How familiar are you with the layout of this place, Hassan?"

The counter-intelligence officer allowed himself the satisfaction of a tiny smirk. "Probably as familiar as you are, Connelly."

Matt nodded. "Right. So the best way for you to get to the grotto, then…"

"…is to take the tunnel to the right, which winds down and around the main rooms of the structure, avoids the grand hall, where our godly friend is surely taking his hostages, and continues downward until it connects with a passage that leads to the temple shrine, and from there, the grotto."

Matt was impressed. The man _had_ done his homework. Good. It would make things a lot easier than trying to stage some sort of distraction so Hassan could sneak by Bashir. He gave the tall Arab a salute. "Good luck, then, Hassan. I'll take out Bashir and get Bernstein and his daughter out of here. You sure you can do this?"

But his words echoed through empty air. Hassan was already gone, his silent footsteps racing against an unseen, unknown clock.

* * *

Ardeth slowed his pace and watched, his silent footsteps slowly carrying him down the corridor towards the open antechamber at the end. Connelly squatted in the dimly lit room, the bags containing his photography equipment spread about in an organized sort of disarray. He could easily have been a photographer going through his equipment, selecting just the right combination of apparatus to ensure that the images he captured were picture perfect. The only note of discord sprung from the fact that it was certainly not lenses and film that Ardeth saw strewn about on the floor, nor was it a camera that Connelly was quickly and efficiently assembling and loading. 

The high-powered rifle shone a dull metallic gray as Connelly twisted the last piece into position, locked it into place and snapped in the ammunition cartridge. It was a lethal-looking piece of weaponry—military-issue, by the looks of it. Certainly, it was nothing that a photojournalist had any business carrying around, no matter how many regiments of cannibalistic Pygmies they intended to bump into during the course of an honest day's work in a jungle that appeared and disappeared at the whim of the gods.

Connelly's hand skimmed over the barrel of the weapon. With an appreciative smile, he tested its weight with both hands, tossing it lightly up and down before laying it gently on the satchel that had contained its disassembled parts. Quickly, he began to scoop up the remainder of the arsenal lying on the ground, the arms and munitions going into the bottom of the various bags and containers, the harmless photographic decoys resting on top as camouflage. In seconds, the bags were stuffed full again, and Connelly stood, looking around the room for a place to secure them while he followed Bashir and his captives.

"I would offer to watch your equipment for you, Mr. Connelly, but I am not much of a photographer." Ardeth stepped out of the hallway, a silent, black-clad apparition materializing from the gloom. In the flickering play of torchlight that illuminated the vestibule, his swarthy complexion was darker than ever, and the tattooing on his forehead and cheekbones seemed to dance over the darkness of his skin in a sinister pattern of lines and shadows. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he approached slowly, patiently, his eyes dark caverns in a face that held too many secrets. "I confess, I have a better working knowledge of the other equipment you seem to have brought with you on your _photo shoot_."

Connelly spun around in surprise, not used to being caught off guard. "Bay. What the hell are you doing here?" He raked a hand through his sun-streaked hair, obviously agitated. His eyes dropped to the rifle, loaded and ready, lying on the floor not a meter away from him. It was also within a meter of Bay, and Connelly saw the other man smile as his gaze dropped to the weapon, as well.

"Before I answer that, Mr. Connelly, perhaps you might share your real identity and purpose here. You are obviously not who you claim to be, unless the New York Times now takes to hiring mercenaries as global correspondents." Ardeth's posture was relaxed but wary, and he continued to keep an eye on Connelly and the gun. He would almost bet his life on the fact that Matt Connelly and he were on the same side, given the man's past, but he wanted to hear it for himself.

Connelly's cover would have been blown in minutes, anyway, so he saw no reason to keep up pretenses. Besides, he still had his insurance policy—he could feel the heavy weight of the revolver back inside its holster beneath his khaki shirt. He could have it out in seconds—much less time than it would take Bay to make a grab for the rifle. He decided to oblige the man.

"My name is Matt Connelly. Did I say I was from the New York Times?" A silly grin curved his lips upward. "Oops, little mistake. Sorry about that. I meant the CIA." He didn't extend his hand in greeting, and the smile didn't quite melt the glacier blue of his eyes.

"Of course." Ardeth nodded. He believed Connelly; there was no reason not to believe him.

"So. Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?" Connelly felt fidgety. His hand positively itched to make a grab for one of the weapons.

"You already know my name. My reasons for being here, however…" The Med Jai paused, not sure how to answer. His reasons for being at Ahm Shere had undergone a metamorphosis over the last few days. He was no longer sure what was required of him, what remained of the charge he had once single-mindedly sought to carry out. But he could read the agitation in Connelly's stance, and knew he would need to provide an answer. He stepped forward and to the side, away from the rifle on the ground, and held his hands out to show that he was unarmed. "I am part of an…organization…that monitors this area. We watch to ensure that nothing harmful…arises."

Connelly's arm swung around in an arc that encompassed most of the room. "Gee, you kinda missed this little…arising, didn't you?" Seeing the consternation on Ardeth's face, he shrugged and reached for the rifle. "So you're with the Sudan government, then? One of Hassan's men?"

"I am not," Ardeth corrected, and watched as Connelly turned to face him again, wary once more. "The organization I am affiliated with is private, and relatively unknown." His face hardened slightly. "We would prefer that it remain that way."

"Well, since I don't know what the hell they _are_, I'm sure not going to go telling your secrets, Bay." Connelly growled. "But as you can see, I'm a little busy here…"

"What has happened, Mr. Connelly," Ardeth asked, gesturing towards the rifle. "You have been operating covertly for days—now you forsake your cover…for what? What has happened?"

"Dunno if you need to know that, Bay." Connelly didn't know why, but for some reason, he instinctively trusted Bay. Still, the man had no reason knowing the full extent of what was going on here. But he could tell him enough to get him out of here safely. "But you do need to know that it's no longer safe in the pyramid. A bomb's been planted down in the grotto—so get out of here, and if you find anyone on the way out, take them out with you, and get as far away from the place as you can. If you have any weapons, take them with you, to keep the critters away. But keep it quiet about the bomb—we don't need to start a mass panic. Someone's down there now, trying to disarm it…"

"This was the doing of the Sudanese, was it not?" Ardeth showed no signs of leaving. Nor did he seem overly surprised at the news of the bomb. This should have alarmed Connelly, but for some reason, it didn't.

"Not the Sudanese as a whole—some fringe group of loonies who think they'll get a one way ticket to heaven if they take out as many infidels as they can. And they apparently want to bring a few of the pyramid's unique little germs back home to play with, too…"

"They have the virus?"

"They must, because they planted the bomb in the middle of the germ factory. They wouldn't be blowing it up if they still needed it." Connelly's characteristically flip response was more grim than usual. "Look, I'd love to stay here and chat, but I've got things to do…"

Something didn't fit, here. "I thought someone was already disarming the bomb. If that's the case, what are you doing going back down there? Shouldn't you be helping to evacuate the pyramid?"

"Look, Bay," Connelly said, glancing down the passage to the great hall. "There are some other…issues."

"What _issues_, Connelly?" Ardeth's feeling of foreboding grew. "If you told me, perhaps I could help you…"

"Okay, Bay, here's the rest of the story, but I have to talk fast, and you need to listen faster." His words were interrupted by another quick glance down the hallway. "Bashir's in on this. He ran into Bernstein and his kid on their way out—Bernstein had found out about the bomb, somehow, and Bashir pulled a gun on them. He's taking them down towards the grotto, and I need to catch them before he gets there."

Ardeth was horrified. Bashir—it was no surprise to learn that he was one of the terrorists—had taken Eliana and her father hostage? There was no way he was leaving now.

"Connelly, I am sorry, but Eliana is my friend, and I cannot leave her…"

The younger man rolled his eyes. "See, I knew it was a mistake to tell you."

"Let me help you, Connelly." Ardeth wasn't begging, and he wouldn't. He didn't have to. Logic was on his side in this. "Two of us working together have a better chance than just one."

Connelly hesitated. There was some truth to what Bay was saying, and he really didn't have time to argue with him. If Bay could handle a gun…

"Can you use a handgun, Bay?" Connelly asked, pulling the gun from its holster.

"I can, but I prefer the rifle."

Connelly rolled his eyes again. "Figures."

Motioning Ardeth over to him, he picked up the rifle and held it out to him. "Okay. If you're using this, you're going to be a sniper. I want you up in the gallery encircling the great hall. Find a position where you've got a clean shot at Bashir, and if I can't take him from the ground, it's up to you. Take him out. You understand?"

Ardeth nodded, taking the weapon from Connelly and testing its weight in his hands. "I understand."

"All right, then, Bay. Let me give you a quick run down on how this thing works." He took a step nearer, and the two men bent their heads over the rifle, Ardeth quickly learning that the weapon was an even deadlier tool than he had first suspected.

* * *

The scene he stumbled upon was one from some of his worst memories, and he had to remind himself that this time they were not his enemies. Still, the distrust was hard to set aside, and as Imhotep walked into the vestibule and saw Ardeth and Connelly huddled over the weapon, he held back a shudder of revulsion and fear. Forcing himself to continue, he reminded himself that Ardeth had proven himself trustworthy over and over again, and Connelly had always been an honorable man. Even so, it was difficult to take those last few steps into the room. 

"What is going on here, Bay?"

"Imhotep." Ardeth looked up from the rifle. "You are finished in the infirmary?"

The priest inclined his head in a brief nod. "For now." They have enough blood to complete Doug's treatment, as well as several vials for their studies. Although he still found the concept that his blood contained miraculous properties that the modern healers wanted to study somewhat unbelievable, the fact that Doug's condition had deteriorated no further—in fact was improving somewhat—was beginning to convince him.

But none of that answered his question. "What is going on here?"

Ardeth and Connelly exchanged a glance, and the American shook his head slightly. There was no way he intended to tell Imhotep about Eliana being held hostage. The man was too personally involved—Connelly would bet his life on that—and he couldn't be counted on to remain objective. He would be a loose cannon, and to Connelly's military-trained mind, that was a dangerous thing. He turned to the Med Jai, a look of warning in his eyes. "Why don't you fill our Egyptian friend here in on the situation in the grotto, while I try to take care of the other little issue? He can help evacuate the place, while you help me take care of the other things."

Turning to Imhotep, Connelly gave a brief salute. "Sorry, man, I gotta go. Bay'll fill you in on the situation _in the grotto_." Another warning look at Ardeth, and Connelly was gone.

A less perceptive man than Imhotep wouldn't have caught the slight emphasis on the last three words. He waited until Connelly had disappeared down the passageway before turning a glowering visage on the Med Jai.

"Bay, _what is going on here?_"

* * *

The route Connelly took, once he made his way down the passageway leading to the grand hall, took him around the upper gallery and down a smaller staircase towards the rear of the large room, where he could catch up with Bashir and his hostages without them seeing him prance down the main staircase. They had not yet left the room, and while Connelly was relieved, he was also somewhat alarmed. There was no reason for them to have stopped, although Bashir seemed to be filling the time nicely by taunting Bernstein about how Ahm Shere's demise would be credited to him, leaving him to make his mark on history by destroying the treasure he had sought his entire life. To his credit, Bernstein wasn't rising to the bait, but Bashir didn't seem to notice, so enamored was he of the sound of his own voice. 

But why was he standing down here, killing precious time? Connelly sidled up behind one of the massive pillars circling the outer perimeter of the room, and watched the Sudanese man. In between taunting the archaeologist, he looked up and around the room, almost as if he was expecting someone. Almost as if he was…waiting.

If he was waiting for reinforcements, Connelly's time was limited, at best. He had to make his move now, while the odds were still in his favor. Cautiously maneuvering his handgun into position, he took a deep breath and prepared to step into view. For now, Bashir was far enough away from Bernstein and Eliana to give him a clear shot. He was good enough with a gun to simply wound the man, immobilize him without killing him, so that they could question him later.

His instincts sent a shiver down his spine and had the hair standing up on the back of his neck a split second before the hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned around to look into the obsidian black eyes of one of Bashir's henchman. The man smiled coldly, and with a flick of the wrist that held the gun to Connelly's head, indicated that Connelly should lose the revolver.

With a sigh, Matt lifted his hands over his head, took a step backwards, and started to lower his right hand, the one holding the gun. The gun dropped to the floor, a metallic clang signaling its fall. As the Sudanese man sensed victory, his grin broadened, and he failed to see the feral look of danger in Connelly's eyes. He looked away for a split second, looking over to see if the noise had drawn Bashir's attention, and Connelly saw his opening. Grabbing the man's gun hand with his right hand, and bringing his fisted left hand around in a vicious jab that broke the other man's nose, Connelly reversed the odds again. The other man fell to the floor, moaning and clutching at the bloody pulp of his nasal cartilage.

With a sneer, Connelly reached sideways for his discarded gun. His hand fell instead on a booted foot. "Looking for this?" the Arabic-accented voice asked sarcastically, as the dark-skinned hand held the revolver just out of Connelly's reach. "I'm thinking you may need to apologize to my friend, here, for ruining his face for him."

"Like hell," Connelly growled, but was interrupted by a stream of furious Arabic coming from the grand hall. His new acquaintance grinned at him again, and waved his own gun at Connelly.

"My superior says he would like us to join him, Mr. Connelly." A mocking bow told Connelly he was to precede the other man into the room. "He is not a patient man, and it will not do to keep him waiting."

* * *

Imhotep watched as Ardeth hiked the rifle up under his arm and prepared to head down the passage after Connelly. The American had been gone for mere minutes, but the Med Jai was anxious to follow him. He had explained the situation with the Sudanese, the explosive device in the grotto, and the need for Imhotep to get those still inside the pyramid out. And he had also explained that there was a situation with one of the Sudanese—Bashir—that Connelly needed his assistance to resolve. 

Imhotep agreed with the need for immediate evacuation—Eliana after all, was still inside the doomed structure, and he was impatient to get her safely outside. But something about the Med Jai's words did not ring true, and as Ardeth turned to go, Imhotep's hand shot out to detain him. "Bay." The word was clipped, impatient. "You have not told me everything, have you? There is something you are keeping from me."

Ardeth looked at the priest, his worry outlined in the lines of his face. His dark eyes went to Imhotep's, but he couldn't hold the man's gaze, and finally he dropped his eyes and looked away. Ardeth understood Connelly's unspoken warning—and the reason for it—but he also knew how he would feel in Imhotep's position. _Suppose Eliana were his to protect and cherish?_

His resolve wavered, then came crashing down. "He has Eliana, Imhotep. Bashir is holding her and her father hostage." Miserable as he felt, giving the priest this kind of news, he felt marginally better for having done the right thing. Imhotep had the right to know.

Imhotep stood immobile, frozen in shock. "He _what_?"

"He has taken Eliana and Professor Bernstein hostage." For all that he was anxious to get moving, Ardeth tried to answer him completely. "Connelly and Hassan, who is apparently a member of Sudanese counterintelligence and not affiliated with these men, overheard the exchange. Bernstein somehow found out about the bomb, went to get Eliana, and Bashir intercepted them as they were leaving the pyramid. He is taking them down into the grotto—where the bomb is located."

Imhotep stared at Ardeth, cold fury on his face. "You thought to keep this from me?"

"We thought it would be better if you did not know, Imhotep. Connelly is with the CIA—an American government agency working to eradicate groups of men like this. He is trained in such matters. I have some experience with weapons as well. And neither of us is as emotionally involved as you—we can remain clear-headed and focused. Even though I care for Eliana, as a friend, I can keep my emotions out of this and remain calm." He fixed the priest with a level stare. "Can you say the same?"

"No," came the immediate response. "I cannot. But because of my feelings for Eliana, I am the one who will see to her safety. It is my responsibility—it is my right." His voice was colder than the black flame in his eyes, and Ardeth realized there would probably be no stopping him.

"My friend," Ardeth placed his hand on Imhotep's shoulder, ignoring the priest's flinch. "You know nothing about modern weapons, I have no time to teach you, and we have only the one rifle between us, in any case. What is it you hope to do?"

Imhotep's voice was bleak, as the truth of the Med Jai's words sunk in. "I do not know, Bay, but I must do something."

"Going down there with no weapon save anger and arrogance would put you in grave peril, Imhotep."

"If any harm comes to Eliana, Med Jai, my life is worth nothing anyway."

Ardeth stared silently at the priest, until finally the pressure of each passing minute became too great. He had to follow Connelly.

"All right, Imhotep. Follow me. We will devise a plan as we go."

* * *

Connelly walked around the pillar, stepping out into the muted light of the grand hall, and took in the new scene. Bernstein was down on the floor, unconscious, and Bashir held Eliana with an arm around her neck, the barrel of his pistol pointed to her head. 

"Your father…" Connelly said to Eliana, ignoring Bashir for now.

She shook her head, but it was Bashir who spoke. "Unconscious only, at least for now. He was beginning to annoy me," he offered in smiling explanation, before his small grin blossomed into something truly evil. "How kind of you to join our little party, Mr. Connelly. I think, though, that you may have been a bit duplicitous with us about your true vocation. You aren't really a photojournalist, are you, my friend?"

"Go to hell," was Connelly's only response. Surreptitiously, he glanced upwards, at the seemingly empty gallery. _Where the hell was Ardeth Bay?_

"I think perhaps you may reach that destination before me, Mr. Connelly," Bashir rejoined, then glanced behind Connelly to where his two associates stood, the one still holding his gun on Connelly, the other still moaning, bleeding and clutching his smashed nose.

* * *

Ardeth waved Imhotep to a halt towards the end of the passageway. From where they stood, they could see out into the great hall, and clearly hear the conversation drifting up from the cavernous room below. Neither sight nor sound was reassuring right now. 

Connelly had obviously stumbled into some sort of trap, and been captured. Bernstein lay on the floor, unconscious or worse, and Eliana was in Bashir's clutches, a gun pointed at her head.

Imhotep started forward immediately, blind fury etching his face in stark lines, but Ardeth held him back. "Wait, Imhotep. Now is not the time to rush heedlessly in."

"What do you suggest, Bay?" the priest hissed, almost shaking from the control it took to stay there, instead of rushing immediately to rescue Eliana.

"Cool heads must prevail, Imhotep," Ardeth warned, though understanding sympathy shone in his eyes. "No matter how tempting it would be to simply attack, that strategy is not a good one."

Imhotep considered for a moment, then asked, "You are skilled with that weapon, Bay?"

Ardeth nodded. He had been instructed in the use of weapons, both ancient and modern, since he was a boy.

"What was your original intent—yours and Connelly's?" Imhotep asked, glancing again towards the scene in the hall below.

Ardeth shrugged. That plan was surely null and void by now. "I was to find a spot in the upper gallery here, where I had clear aim at Bashir. Connelly would attempt to overtake him directly, but if that failed…"

"It seems to have failed, Med Jai." The priest observed, with grim sarcasm.

"I was to take Bashir out from above," Ardeth finished, ignoring the jab.

Imhotep nodded his agreement. "But with Eliana held as she is, that will be impossible, without endangering her."

"Agreed," Ardeth affirmed. "But if Bashir could be distracted, convinced or coerced into letting her go…"

They both looked down into the hall again. With the two of them added to the equation, the odds were in their favor once more. One of the Sudanese held Connelly at gunpoint. Connelly, however, might be able to take advantage of a momentary diversion, and disarm the man. The other Sudanese couldn't even be considered—he was a mewling mess, and would be easy to further immobilize. That left Bashir, who was still clutching Eliana. He would be the challenge.

"Find your position, Bay," Imhotep ordered. "I will find a way to distract him. But when he releases her, do not hesitate." The priest's voice dropped an octave, filled with hatred. "Kill him."

"Imhotep, you can't walk in there unarmed." Ardeth knew his protest was falling on deaf ears, but he had to try to reason with the man. "You'll be a walking target."

"It is our best chance, Bay," Imhotep said, and from the grimly determined tone in his voice, Ardeth knew there would be no dissuading him. "Eliana needs me, and I will not fail her. Even if something should happen to me, I must try." He paused, grief and despair warring with the anger in his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, filled with anguish. "She is everything to me, Bay. Everything." His gaze locked with Ardeth's. "Surely you must understand that by now."

Ardeth was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Imhotep, I understand." He watched as the priest took a breath and turned to walk down the stairway. Once more, Ardeth's hand pulled him back. "Give me a minute—no more—to find a vantage point, then make your move." He reached out to clasp the priest's hand. "Good luck, my…friend."

Imhotep looked down at their clasped hands and, for a moment, the strangeness of that sight transfixed him. What an unlikely outcome to this strange saga—a Med Jai actually calling The Creature a friend. And stranger still, that The Creature would, in the end, consider the Med Jai a friend, as well.

The priest lifted his eyes to the Med Jai's once more, and Ardeth could almost believe that he saw a momentary sheen of moisture in Imhotep's eyes. But the moment passed, the look was gone, and after a brief clasp in return, Imhotep pulled his hand free.

"Good luck to you as well, Bay," he said, watching as Ardeth slid off into the shadows, moving on quick, silent feet. The Med Jai didn't hear the last words the priest murmured. "May your god guide you and keep you safe…friend."

* * *

The minute passed. 

He knew that somewhere along the edge of the hall's upper mezzanine, Ardeth was securing a position from which he had a clear view—and a clear shot. He could see that below, on the main floor of the great hall, Connelly was attempting to move into a better position himself. Connelly's situation was complicated and his maneuvering slowed by the fact that he was in full view of Bashir and his henchman, who happened to be holding him at gunpoint. But as Imhotep started down the huge stone staircase that led from the halls and passages of the pyramid's upper levels to the massive open area of the great hall, all he saw was Eliana and Bashir and the gun that the crazed man was pointing at her temple.

The priest made no attempt at subterfuge—at this point, he would leave subtlety and stealth to Ardeth and Connelly and the other men who didn't have such a personal stake in the outcome. The rational part of his mind recognized that in reality, they all _did_ have a stake in the outcome—somewhere deep in the bowels of the pyramid, an explosive device was set on a one-way countdown to annihilation—but the emotional part of his mind rejected that claim. Unlike Imhotep, neither Ardeth nor Connelly was watching as a madman held a gun on the woman they loved. They could afford to be rational, logical, cool-headed and detached. He could not—not while some lunatic was threatening Eliana.

As he had expected, the sound of his footsteps drew the attention of the armed Sudanese and their hostages. He tried to ignore the look of panic on Eliana's face, the expression of baffled annoyance painted over Connelly's features. He focused instead on his enemies, who watched with as much amazement as antagonism as an unarmed man walked calmly into the midst of a holy war. For a moment, and a moment only, Imhotep felt a pang of regret over the loss of the immeasurable powers of the Hom Dai. Once, he could have walked uncaring into a firestorm of bullets—and laughed at the mere mortals wielding the weapons. No more. He was as mortal as they—he felt pain, he bled, he could die. He was not afraid of death—by now, he was well aware that death was not the worst possible fate that could befall a man—but he was deathly afraid, all the same.

His gaze flickered to Eliana; he tried to give her as reassuring a look as he could muster, while he walked into range of the weapons in the room, one of which was now pointed at him. Bashir's gun was still pressed tight against Eliana's temple. During those last few steps down the staircase, he held her gaze, staring into the emerald green of her eyes as though trying to look through them and read the essence of her soul. All else faded away—fear, anger, caution…memory.

He took the last step, and his foot fell on the great seal of Anubis.

* * *

Light shot upward from all around the perimeter of the seal, tiny pillars of blazingly bright white energy that climbed from the stone floor upwards, as if reaching towards heaven itself. It formed a single, perfect column from floor to ceiling and seemingly beyond as well, effectively trapping Imhotep inside a pulsating, rotating prison. 

The priest stopped instantly, glancing first to the right and then to the left. At first his face registered nothing but confounded shock. Then, as he looked down at the seal he stood upon and upwards into the gyrating cell of energy, realization stole over his features and shock faded into disbelieving horror.

The gods' timing, of course, was as impeccably horrible as ever.

"No!" he screamed, in dismayed, futile protest. He launched himself towards the wall of light, his fists up, trying to hurl himself through the barrier.

Eliana flinched and turned away, sure that Imhotep would be harmed—the light looked scorchingly hot, hot enough to burn flesh, incinerate skin and muscle and bone. For all its brilliance, though, the light was a cold flame—cold and impenetrable. The wall of energy rebuffed his assault and swatted the priest aside like a giant flicking away an annoying insect, and Imhotep landed on the floor in a winded, ignominious heap.

"What the hell…?" Connelly summarized for everyone, as they all looked on in open-mouthed shock. From somewhere far off, the sound of wind began to build.

A hundred paces away from each other, through the wall of light, Imhotep and Eliana's eyes met, and at that moment, hope began to seep from his heart and doubt crept like a slinking specter into his soul. His time had come; Amun-Re had returned.

* * *

Time shuddered to a gasping halt. The light swept around in a dizzyingly fast whirlwind, gaining strength and power as it swirled around its nexus, the great seal of Anubis and the man trapped inside. His fists continued their puny bombardment against the impenetrable wall of energy, but Imhotep knew that his struggle was futile. The light was nothing a mortal could hope to challenge; nothing a mere human could beat into submission or escape from. Even as an immortal himself—the Creature forged by the power of the Hom Dai—Imhotep had not been immune to the whim of the gods. 

Another futile barrage of blows, and he gave up, sinking to his knees. The light kept him captive, trapped him in its circle of power, and all he could do was stare helplessly through its translucent gleam as Eliana watched, and understood. He saw the knowledge reflected in the deep emerald of her eyes as a single tear traced a sparkling line down her face, as she stood there in silence, Bashir's gun still pointed at her temple. She knew; his time had finally come.

He stretched his hand out in mute appeal towards her, towards the light, as if somehow a gentle assault might penetrate the barrier where all the brute strength in the world had already failed. The light was immune to that sort of attack, as well. If anything, it seemed to grow thicker, more opaque, sealing him off more securely from the others, from life, from hope.

Imhotep gave up completely. What would be; would be. He was once again at the mercy of the whims of the gods. He knew Eliana couldn't hear him—by now the sound of the distant wind had built to hurricane proportions. In one last attempt to communicate what he hadn't yet told her in words, he bent his still-outstretched arm inward, his hand lifting towards his chest, his palm over his heart. _I love you._ The gesture was unmistakable, the unspoken vow understandable in any language, a non-verbal pledge that spanned the millennia, breaching the barriers of language and time, heartbreaking in its unerring simplicity, connecting two souls, two hearts. _I love you._ Wherever he might be taken, no matter what lay before him, what path he was forced to walk, he would carry her with him.

Through the imperfect window of the light, Eliana saw him, saw the gesture, and understood its meaning. Not caring that she had a gun pointed at her head, she pulled away from Bashir, tears now streaming freely down her face. Bashir, as awestruck as any of the rest of them by the awesome display, loosened his hold on her slightly, although the gun stayed put.

Her hand went first to her lips, then to her heart, and the sad half-smile he gave her in return told her that he understood. One last gesture, a small downward arc of her palm that was a sad echo of their own special gesture said goodbye, communicated more than anything else she could say or do that he was free to choose whatever path he must, and regardless of his choice, she would love him. If this was the end, he could go on knowing that for a short while, in this lifetime, they had found each other again, and had loved, and however briefly, had overcome fate's machinations.

A grimace of emotion twisted Imhotep's handsome features, and for a second, anger replaced the glint of unshed tears in his eyes. For a second, it looked like he would once again try to beat his way through the barrier of light, but in that second, the light took control, a new beam arcing downwards, spearing the priest through the chest, through the hands, and, when his back arced in a spasm of pain, his head thrown back, eyes clenched shut, mouth open in a silent scream of agony, the light struck again, a blindingly bright beam shooting like a laser straight towards him.

The circling whirlwind of light gathered speed, its opacity grew, cutting Imhotep off from Eliana's sight, and from some far corner of the pyramid came the wind—gusting and blowing like a barely restrained hurricane, its roar deafening and frightful and full of the fury and power of god.


	23. Chapter 23

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

_The truth of what we call our knowing is both light and dark. Men are always dying and waking. The rhythm between we call life. In the night I turn and face myself, the many howling, laughing, pausing in the body of one. Some miracle is about to happen. Some new man unseen wishes to rise and speak. I walk in the dark feeling darkness on my skin. Dawn always begins in the bones. The light stirs me to rise and walk. Lightly I step around the sleeping forms, the bodies of the other selves still dreaming. Nothing has been disturbed except my inner quiet. I am restless, an animal sniffing the wind. The shape of truth is coming._

_Death matters, as does life. As it ends it begins again. Knowing that is both my comfort and my fear. Perfection is a long road; I shall never see its end—the ribbon of life winds back on itself. At dawn the threads of time unfurl, sunlight streams across the sands. Time reaches in both directions, knotted in the golden orb of the moment. This moment is eternity._

_Stars fade like memory. Bless the boat of the morning that carries us into light. Bless the oars that stir the water causing ripples of consciousness. Bless the northern and southern edges of the sky. Bless the eastern and western banks of the river. Bless the oarsmen in the boat, god's people, his creation. Bless the face of god above and the reflection of god above on earth below. Bless the veil of clouds that guard his secrets. Bless life stirring below the surface of the skin, the discomfort of human weakness and mortality, loss and suffering, the misunderstandings that prick consciousness and prod men toward truth. Bless the goddesses, the wives, the daughters, the mothers, the priestesses. Bless the house of Osiris. Bless this body where the world is gathered. Bless the light in his forehead, in his heart and hands. Bless the sun that shines on every limb._

_A creature of light am I._

_Now the treasures of the world lie before me—the jeweled wings of love and the gold bracelets of days. The crown of existence rests on my head, crystal stars in a lapis sky. Tempted neither by terror nor wonder, I take earth's simple offerings: a handful of seeds, the air in my nose and the rays of light on my belly. In time I'll fly in and out of time. In time I'll come to the house of magic. I shall pass into the unity of fire and know dreams and colors and secrets. For now it is enough to roam the air that separates earth from sky. I do not hurry my destiny. I neither long for history nor forget it_

_I have come home. I have entered humanhood, bound to rocks and plants, men and women, rivers and sky. I sail a long river and row back again. It is joy to breathe under the stars. I am the sojourner destined to walk a thousand years until I arrive at myself..._

_--Excerpts from "Hymn to Ra", "Becoming the Hawk Divine" and "Hymn to Osiris", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

"It is time."

Once again, he heard the voice with his mind, not his ears. Ears were useless here, where there was nothing corporeal, nothing of flesh and blood and bone. The voice that entered his mind was pure energy, pure light, and Imhotep marveled at its singular, horrifying beauty.

"You have fulfilled your duty; your wish will be granted." The voice continued speaking to his mind, but an almost sly tone crept into it. "I have come to give you what you so desired—death, and entrance into the Golden Lands. Are you ready for your journey?"

"No!" Imhotep's mind screamed the answer. "No! When last we met, I spoke hastily, foolishly." He spun around, searching within the shifting column for a point on which to focus; there was none. Finally, dizzied by the incandescent display, he closed his eyes and simply stood there, a single, lone point at the center of the storm. "I beg you—please. Give me the choice you promised me then."

"You did not wish for a choice—your mind was settled, your heart steadfast in its resolve." The voice was condescending, cruelly indifferent. "Are you so mutable, your affections so capricious? This says little for humanity, if the space of days can bend and so thoroughly transform a resolve as hardened as yours. Come now—you have lived, and as you said before, this is not your time. Close your mind to the rest—think of the peace, the joy, the release from suffering. You have suffered, suffered greatly, and even though the suffering was inflicted in part due to your own arrogance and headstrong willfulness, your debt has been paid. You are released." A small pause, and the voice continued, the slyness now back fourfold. "Or will you argue your case again, based upon new evidence? You wish to revoke your earlier claims?"

So the god wanted him to grovel. Very well, he would grovel. He had spoken hastily, out of bitterness and betrayal and grief—some humility was due. And if it bought him a reprieve, a lifetime with Eliana, it was pride well spent. "I have already admitted that I spoke foolishly, hastily. I will add that my words sprang from hurt, from grief, from wounded pride, from the sting of perceived betrayal." He paused, gathering his thoughts, finding the words, organizing them and forming their shape and substance in his mind. "My reaction was that of a man who believed he had nothing to live for—no purpose, no higher calling, no one with whom to share a lifetime. Without companionship, without love, where is the beauty in life? I thought that everything had been taken from me, that there was nothing left to give life beauty, purpose, substance and meaning. I believed that everything I had lived for, died for—endured for—had been taken from me and was lost forever. My only thought was to escape from this life and grasp whatever peace could be found in the afterlife."

He stopped, waited for some reaction from the deity, but when empty silence filled his mind, he continued. "I was…mistaken. No, more than that, I was completely, utterly wrong, and stubbornly arrogant in my tenacious clinging to those false beliefs. The world had changed, circumstances had changed, and I refused to change with them."

The deity gave him the time to once again ponder his words. This time, he chose a different tack. "You say that it is a sign of weakness that the minds of humans are malleable, easily transformed, prone to change. I disagree. Humans have a great capacity to learn, to adapt, to change, to transform—those are the very qualities that have led to mankind's greatest triumphs and achievements. As with anything, there is a dark side—pride, anger, hatred, vengeance—but it is the journey from the dark to the light that transforms the man, allows him to grow and change and become a stronger, better person. My road has been a long and painful one to travel, but I have learned, and I have grown, and I have come to appreciate the singular beauty of life."

He had made his case; all that was left was the request. "If you will still allow me to choose, I will choose to remain here, for whatever span of time I may have left as a mortal man. I will live, and love, and find a place for myself here. And never will a day pass when I do not pause to give thanks for the great gift that has been granted me."

Silence filled the light-filled void. Several lifetimes seemed to pass before the voice spoke again. "Well said, human. Well said. We will consider the matter." Another pause. "But you have not yet addressed the fate of the other. A curse rests upon her soul as well, and a debt remains to be paid. What of her fate?"

Imhotep swallowed, and felt himself grow cold. _Eliana still bore the curse? _"I thought…I assumed…"

Anger laced through the substanceless voice. "Do not presume to fathom the will of the gods, mortal."

"Then nothing has changed." Imhotep's statement was flat, expressionless.

"The curse on _your_ soul has been lifted, mortal. You are free."

"My soul and hers are cut from the same cloth—if one is stained, that flaw marks the other as well." A heavy resignation made the weightless words leaden. "If she still bears the weight of the curse, I bear it as well."

"You would tie your fate to hers, then? Suffer with her through the punishment for her sins?" _Could a god's voice hold that much disbelief?_ "You would give up everything your suffering has bought you, spurn the gift of the gods—freedom from the weight of a mortal life, the heavenly promise of the afterlife? You would refuse these and once again subject yourself to a curse placed by mere men? A curse that is not even your own? All this you would do for her?"

"For her, and for our love. Yes."

Silence descended again, as the light pulsed and throbbed around him. He had begun to think of it as an entity itself, as alive and real as any mortal who had ever walked the earth. It hummed and vibrated, filled with an energy that held the power of life and death.

"We have made our decision, mortal." The voice was quieter now, filled with a sense of watchfulness, almost curiosity. "We will grant you your choice. You will be allowed this lifetime, as will the female."

Imhotep felt his hopes begin to grow, until the deity's next words trampled them yet again. "But heed our words, mortal. Her debt remains, and will be paid in this lifetime; her choice has not yet been made."

"_Her_ choice? She has _made_ her choice; she has chosen me as well. _What_ choice?"

"Silence, mortal, no more questions. You have made your choice." The voice held a hint of warning. "Live your life, walk your path, as she will walk hers."

"Our paths are the _same_ path," Imhotep protested, forgetting that he spoke to a god. "Our souls are joined—that choice has been made. What more atonement must be offered? Tell me—_I_ will pay her debt."

The voice changed, a note of deadly warning creeping into its rich vibrancy. "We tell you once again—it is not your place to question our will." Then, softening the rebuke, it added, "As much as love joins two souls, they are still two souls, mortal. Damage has been done; it must be repaired. The debt must be repaid. She must choose her fate, as you chose yours; you cannot speak for her. Nor can you pay her debts." The voice dropped lower, became softer still. "Knowing this, do you still choose this path? You would embrace life, with all its uncertainty, all its pain, all its loss? You would choose this, and her, over the certainty of the freedom that has been offered you?"

Knowing full well the finality of the words he spoke, Imhotep still did not hesitate to speak them. "I will not leave her. I cannot. Regardless of what the future holds, she holds my heart."

"Very well, then, mortal. You have made your choice." As the god's words filled his mind, the light lanced out again, once more piercing Imhotep's body, but this time, there was no pain, only a gentle heat as the tendrils of energy crawled through him, permeating each fiber of muscle, each drop of blood, each strand of tissue, every corner of every cell of every organ. The only sensation was one of warmth and healing and mending, as the light poured through him, scrubbing out any trace of what remained of any remnants of the Hom Dai. It crept through his mind, erasing the tendrils of nightmare that marked his soul, leaving behind only emotionless memories, memories that no longer carried the power they had once possessed. The memories he would carry with him; the pain of those memories was gone.

As the light began to withdraw from him, leaving him gasping and shaking, Imhotep thought he heard the deity speak again, but he could not be sure. For a brief moment, he pondered the words he thought he'd heard form in his mind: "Be well, mortal, and live your life. All will be well." Why ever would an indifferent deity offer something like reassurance to someone who was once again, and who forevermore would be, a mere mortal?

With a sound eerily resembling an indulgent chuckle, the light began to draw in on itself and fade away.

* * *

In seconds, the light was gone, the wind had disappeared, and dead silence filled the hall. Not even a breath stirred the air. As one, the assemblage watched as the man who had stood in the center of the flaming conflagration and somehow survived it dropped his head to his chest and lowered his arms. For a moment, he simply stood there, seemingly lost in some sort of silent prayer. 

When he finally raised his head, his eyes immediately went to Eliana. An eternity of secrets and longings and hopes and dreams passed between them as their gazes locked and the rest of the room faded away. The merest nod of his head told her that he had chosen, and what his choice had been. Then, as a secret smile sealed their compact, Imhotep's gaze frosted over and he turned to the man still holding Eliana. The warmth drained from Imhotep's handsome features as quickly as the color faded from Bashir's swarthy complexion.

Still not moving, Imhotep stared at Bashir, a cold, murderous darkness building in his eyes as he saw the man's arm tighten around Eliana's neck. Bashir saw the devil-light playing in the Egyptian's eyes, and took an involuntary step backwards. As if on cue, Imhotep began to walk towards him, pacing himself, his stride purposeful but not hurried, alert but not tense. He saw sweat bead on the man's forehead as he continued walking, and a smile began to form, a smile that did nothing to melt the icy hatred in his eyes. It was a picture from long ago—the arrogant, unafraid priest advancing on an unwitting, outmatched enemy, an enemy who had unknowingly stumbled into the lair of something that was more powerful than anyone could have imagined. The only difference now was that the priest was mortal. Fully mortal. Whereas before, his power had come from the damnation of unending death, he now drew power from the blessing of the gift of a single lifetime. He was alive, he and Eliana had been given their lifetime together, and by all the gods, this fool would not rob them of it.

Connelly watched the priest walking towards them, and for a second, his eyesight blurred, faded to black, then faded back again, except that image was not right—it had changed somehow, and the man advancing on him was dressed strangely, decked out in the sparse attire of an ancient Egyptian, although his features were unchanged. It was Imhotep, yet it wasn't, and it made Matt's head pound and ache and his stomach clench with an overpowering wave of nausea. And for some reason, it filled him with dread—dread and anger both, which was strange, since Imhotep had never done anything to him to earn his anger. _Had he?_ Fisting a hand against his pounding temple, Connelly closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. When he opened them again, the vision had faded, and once again, the only thing he saw was a tall Egyptian man garbed in the rough clothing of a laborer. The only thing that remained of the…_mummy? Okay, Connelly, where the hell did _that_ come from?…_was the murderous gleam in his eye as he advanced on the man still holding Eliana.

* * *

Eliana had stood passively for long enough. For the first few minutes, fear had kept her silent; after that, the realization that Bashir liked to hear himself talk, and was calmed and distracted by the sound of his own voice had convinced her that not speaking was the best course of action. 

Then, when he had clubbed her father over the head with the gun, knocking him out and sending him sprawling on the floor, only to grab her in a chokehold, the time hadn't seemed quite right for action, either, even with Connelly there as well.

But with Imhotep walking towards her, calmly advancing into the range of not one, but two pistols, Eliana knew that the time had come. Imhotep had survived his choice—had _made_ his choice, to remain with her—and no demented sociopath was going have the opportunity to take him away from her. Not in _this_ lifetime.

Imhotep's advance had startled Bashir enough that the man had loosened his grip on her slightly. That little bit of leverage was all she needed. Calling upon a long ago self-defense course she'd taken, a couple of years in martial arts classes as a teen, and a reservoir of stamina and intrinsic knowledge from…_somewhere else_, Eliana grabbed for Bashir's gun hand, twisting it down and around with both of hers, while at the same time placing a vicious backward kick and driving her booted foot into his kneecap.

A startled grunt, a cry of pain, and she was free, turning to face her adversary square-on. Another kick, this one to the groin, made him drop the gun, clutching at his crotch and bending nearly double. Taking advantage of his position, she brought her knee up and into his face, where the sickening crunch of cartilage heralded yet another broken nose among the Sudanese.

Still, Bashir was made of stronger stuff than his comrade, and as he crumbled to the ground, clutching his face with one hand, the other hand snaked out towards the dropped weapon. "Bitch," he growled, though the word was garbled and distorted by the blood and chips of broken teeth in his mouth.

Imhotep reached the gun before Bashir, and with a swift kick sent it skimming across the floor where it glided to a spinning stop in the middle of an empty space towards the rear of the room. Reaching down, the priest picked Bashir up by the collar of his shirt, lifting him effortlessly upwards until the Sudanese man's face was level with his. Furious hazel eyes stared into crazed obsidian ones until with a disgusted sound, Imhotep tossed him aside like so much trash.

He forgot about Bashir before the insane man landed, rolling into a crumbled heap on the floor.

A quick glance towards Eliana saw her kneeling beside her father, cradling his head in her lap. A look in the opposite direction revealed Connelly, relieving the now-unconscious Sudanese of his weapon. He had taken advantage of the distraction provided by Eliana's attack on Bashir to launch his own assault on the man holding him.

Of the other Sudanese, the one previously maimed by Connelly, there was no sign.

Connelly saw Imhotep's puzzled glance towards where the man had been, and offered, by way of explanation, "I don't know. He must have crawled off earlier. I didn't see him go." He bent to pick up a discarded weapon. "But here's his gun. At least he's not armed."

Imhotep nodded at Connelly, but with the removal of the Sudanese threat, all his attention was now focused on Eliana. He crossed to her side, and kneeling beside her, looked down at her father.

"He is alive?" Imhotep's first instinct was to gather Eliana into his arms and carry her off somewhere safe, somewhere he could be assured nothing further would threaten her, but Bernstein was her father, and he realized she would never leave him in the care of Connelly, or even Ardeth. She would insist on caring for him herself. And he couldn't fault her for that—indeed, her devotion to family made him admire her even more.

"We have to get him out of here, Imhotep," Eliana fretted. "There's a bomb…"

"I know, my love," Imhotep said, laying a calming hand on her shoulder. "There is a bomb in the pyramid. Someone is working now to dismantle it. We will get your father out of here first." He looked up at Connelly, and darkness filled his eyes once more. "Then we will find the others responsible for this."

"The others? _What_ others?" A voice from the opposite side of the hall drew their attention, and as one, they looked over to see Rais Azziz standing at the far end of the great hall, Bashir's discarded gun in his hand, and a look of abject horror on his face. "Who is responsible for this?"

* * *

Imhotep stood and waited as Eliana carefully laid her father's head back down, cushioning it with a pillow made from her discarded sweater. Holding out his hand, he helped her stand as well, and they both watched as Connelly began walking towards Azziz, tucking one of the pistols into his belt, and holding the other casually in his hand. 

"A bunch of damn fool religious kooks is who's responsible for this, Azziz." He neared the man, and held out his hand for the gun. "Here, give it to me. You don't look like you like it very much."

Azziz looked up with wild eyes, and backed up a step, taking the gun with him. "Religious _kooks_, Mr. Connelly? What are you talking about?"

"Religious kooks, Azziz. Fanatics." Connelly slowed, moving more cautiously now, watching the other man carefully. A niggle of worry tickled at him, but he ignored it. He'd talked to Azziz fairly often—the man was a typical government bureaucrat, but a good guy all the same. He'd always seemed to Connelly to be the most calm and pleasant of all the Sudanese representatives at the site. Seeing all this must have really rattled him, shaken him out of his usual political charm. Connelly continued. "Fundamentalist weirdoes who think that their way is the only way, even if it involves mass murder and terrorism. _Those_ kind of kooks."

"That is unfortunate, Mr. Connelly," said Azziz, holding the gun in both hands, now, looking at is as though it were a snake about to bite him. "You don't know how unfortunate."

"Well, Azziz, I've got a pretty good idea." Connelly completely halted his advance, now. His instincts were screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. "How's about you give me the gun, and we'll get out of here." He voice deliberately calm, he held out his hand once more.

Azziz looked up at him, the confused look still in his eyes. Connelly had seen eyes like that before—eyes with the glaze of madness in them—and for a moment, he simply froze, watching as the Sudanese shifted the weapon, so that it was no longer held with fearful uncertainty, but now with a shrewd familiarity. Connelly tore his eyes from the gun, and looked back into Azziz's face. The carefully crafted look of confusion was gone now, replaced by one of skillful cunning, as he cocked the weapon and pointed it at Eliana and Imhotep.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Connelly," the diplomat said, a politician's smile sliding smoothly over his dark, pleasant features. He walked several steps closer to Eliana and Imhotep, but his eyes never left Connelly. "I simply cannot do that."

His smile grew even more charming, more gracious, and, with a self-deprecating laugh, he explained. "You see, my friend, _I_ am one of those 'religious kooks'." He frowned slightly, tipped his head to one side as though pondering the semantics. "Although I believe we would prefer to be called 'god's chosen faithful'."

"Oh, I'm sure you _would_," agreed Connelly, fingering the grip of his own gun. _Where the _hell_ was Ardeth Bay?

* * *

_

After Eliana's surprise move against Bashir, Ardeth had started to leave his spot in the gallery, thinking the situation resolved. He had seen the injured Sudanese man leave, and would have gone to track him down the passage he'd disappeared through right after Imhotep's imprisonment in the light. The man had been gone for a while, but in the Ahm Shere encampment, there were few places to hide, and Ardeth thought his chances of finding the man were fairly high.

Something, though, had made him pause, and now, with this new revelation, he thanked Allah that he had listened to his instincts. Lowering himself into a crouching position, he lined up the rifle's sights again, only to find that Eliana was directly in the path of any trajectory. He couldn't shoot Azziz without endangering her. If he moved to the right or to the left, his shot would be blocked by one of the hall's huge pillars. So, hoping for a chance, however small, Ardeth aimed the rifle and waited.

* * *

The verbal jousting in the hall continued. 

"Now, Mr. Connelly," Azziz offered pleasantly, ever the smooth negotiator. "Which would you prefer? Would you like to drop your weapons, or shall I shoot your friends, here?"

Connelly dropped the gun in his hand.

"Oh, the other one, too, please," requested Azziz. "My brother is missing his weapons terribly, you see." Calling over his shoulder, he spoke a few words in rapid Arabic. From behind a pillar, far back in the darkness, a man scuttled forward, moving with rodent-like quickness out into the light of the hall. He darted over to where Connelly had dropped the second weapon and picked it up, pausing to spew a wad of bloody spittle out onto Connelly's booted foot.

"Hey, pal," asked Connelly, recognizing the man immediately as the first Sudanese to have attacked him. The injured terrorist had obviously taken advantage of the earlier confusion to sneak out and bring back reinforcements. Contempt for the weasely little malefactor sounded plain in the cold friendliness of Connelly's voice. "How's the nose?"

* * *

Outside the pyramid, in the communal open air dining area, Akil Hamid sat with Charles and Robert Price, sipping a cup of lukewarm tea. Idle gossip finished for now, the three men sat in companionable silence, until the far-off sound of a helicopter's rotors caught their attention. 

"Who can that be?" Hamid pondered aloud. "The site is off-limits for now, and Doctor Robillard didn't mention having sent for additional medical supplies…"

"Can't even begin to guess, old man," Charles offered unhelpfully, speaking around a mouthful of apple. "I haven't a clue." He seemed content to not have a clue, as well, leaning back in his chair and contentedly closing his eyes as he munched the fruit.

Price, a more adventurous man, leaped at any opportunity to rid himself of his present company. Standing, he stretched and peered out over the forest canopy, towards the approaching sound. "Think I'll go have a look, see who it is. I could use a walk."

Hamid looked up worriedly. "Is that a good idea, Mr. Price? The natives, and all…"

Price grinned and patted the gun concealed within his jacket. Since his initial shock at first meeting the bizarre-looking jungle inhabitants, he'd grown accustomed to the thought of the ugly little things, and indeed, a nice hunting trip might be just the thing to perk up his day.

"I'll be fine, Hamid," he answered the other man, and with a jaunty swagger, walked off into the jungle.

* * *

"Well, well," intoned Azziz, looking back and forth between Connelly, who stood slightly to his left, and Bernstein, who lay on the floor off to his right, and Eliana and Imhotep, who were right in front of him. "Decisions, decisions. Where to begin?" 

He made a show of scratching his head, thinking hard. The gun swung towards Connelly. "Do we start with the young American agent?" Amused with his own wit, Azziz waved the weapon in Bernstein's direction. "Or perhaps with the aging, but intrepid explorer?"

His cold eyes moved to where Imhotep stood, one arm wrapped protectively around Eliana, shielding her as best he could. "Or do we begin with the mysterious miracle man—the walking medical wonder?" A courtly bow took in Eliana, as well. "Followed shortly by his lady love, of course."

"Shoot the bitch first, brother," whined Bashir, sitting on the floor, looking like a kicked dog. "Kill her, then the Egyptian."

"Shut up, Bashir," Azziz ordered pleasantly. "You are an idiot. I am not surprised you were bested by a woman." Bashir sank back down to the floor.

They had been speaking almost exclusively in English, so Imhotep was unaware of most of what had been said, but he was quite clear on who the enemy had turned out to be, and where the danger currently resided. Stepping further in front of Eliana, he glared at the man. In a language that no one in the room could understand, the priest told the high-ranking government official, in as pleasant a tone as the man had used with Bashir, just which portion of Azziz' own anatomy the terrorist should become quite a bit more intimate with.

Knowing he'd just been insulted, but clueless as to what, exactly, that insult had entailed, Azziz let the gun's barrel stay trained on Imhotep. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of starting with the Egyptian. There was something about him, something vaguely…_familiar_…that troubled him greatly, but the more he thought about it, the more it made his head ache and throb, and the more the rest of his body hurt, as well, a stinging burn that felt like blades of fire pierced him. But the pain was strongest and most centered in his mind, a slow-burning psychic rage, an envious phantom jealousy that began to uncoil from somewhere deep within.

Almost absently, he lifted his hand to stroke his chin, a gesture that would have looked completely normal on a bearded man, but on clean-shaven Azziz, seemed somewhat odd.

Azziz stared, trying to get a better grip on what he was feeling, but the strange sense of familiarity began to pass, and an almost confused look crossed his face as he looked helplessly between Imhotep and Eliana. In another moment, the lingering confusion, the nagging headache, and the strange sense of connectedness were all gone, and only angry fanaticism colored his dark features once more.

The antagonism towards these two, though, remained.

He aimed, and a smile grew on his face, an evil light danced in his eyes.

* * *

"Move. Move. _Move!_" Ardeth silently urged Eliana, all the while keeping his sights trained on the middle of Azziz's forehead. Eliana was squarely in the middle of his shot—there was no way to take out the Sudanese man without shooting straight through her. All Ardeth could do was sit silently, hoping she would get his telepathic message and get out of the way. So far, he hadn't proven to be much of a psychic. 

He discarded the attempt at telepathy and began to pray.

* * *

"You have become quite the liability, my _friend_," Azziz continued, now speaking in Hebrew, to ensure Imhotep's complete understanding. His aim never wavered. The barrel of the gun was still pointed straight at the priest's chest. "What a truly remarkable thing—to have won the genetic lottery, so to speak, and be immune to this disease. How unfortunate, though, that because of that, you will be the first to die." 

Imhotep's level gaze didn't falter as he stared at the Sudanese man, and his tone was one of polite curiosity, rather than angry fear. "What can be so priceless, Azziz, that it would cause you to wash your hands in so much blood?"

"Vengeance, Egyptian, and truth, and honor, and the glory of god!" His eyes shown with an unholy light, one that hinted of the true depths of his depraved madness. "We are the chosen ones of god. It is our right—our duty—to wipe the world clean of the infidels and their filth."

Imhotep's tone was mild, calm, as he gently nudged Eliana away from him. "Trust me, my friend; the gods do not care about your cause. You and your followers are simply men, nothing more, and as such, you are as subject to the gods' whims as anyone. As for truth and honor, they are lovely concepts that pale to insignificance when exposed to the fires of damnation. And vengeance?" He spared a sideways glance at Eliana, and the smile he gave her, though small, filled his eyes with warmth and love and remembrance of ages past. After a second that seemed to last forever, he turned back to Azziz. "Vengeance is too often the misplaced goal of those who would find better solace elsewhere."

"A pretty speech, Egyptian, but I'm all out of time for heartfelt philosophical discussions." Azziz sneered at him, his mouth a cruel slash across his swarthy face. "Perhaps when you reach the afterlife, you can sit down and have a nice little chat with those who have gone before you."

Connelly stepped forward, trying to intercede. "Azziz, for god's sake, put down the gun! You don't want to do this!"

The man didn't even glance his way. "On the contrary, Mr. Connelly, I'm actually rather enjoying myself. Give my regards to Osiris, Egyptian…" His finger moved on the trigger.

Without a thought, Eliana launched herself sideways, shoving a startled Imhotep out of the way. The priest stumbled to the side, pulling Eliana with him. Suddenly, Ardeth found himself with a clear field—Eliana was out of the way, and Azziz hadn't moved so much as a centimeter. It was all he needed, and he took the shot. The blast from the high-powered rifle drowned out the explosion of Azziz's handgun, and without so much as a whimper, the Sudanese diplomat fell to the floor, a look of almost comical surprise on his face. His forehead sported a tiny hole, but behind him, a rapidly enlarging pool of blood spread out in a circular pattern from the gaping exit wound in the rear of his skull. Without a second's hesitation, Ardeth swung the rifle around to where the other Sudanese man stood, mouth open, dumb with shock, gaping at his fallen leader. In moments, he too lay on the floor, dispatched with a bullet through the heart.

But three shots had been fired, and all had found their mark.

* * *

The bullet hit before the blasts from the guns had a chance to finish their echoing rumble through the chamber, slamming into Eliana's body with sickening force and spinning her halfway around from the impact. Her gasp of shock was drowned out by the second report of Ardeth's rifle, but Imhotep was beyond hearing, as he caught her in his arms and felt her begin to crumple. Sinking to the ground along with her, he desperately searched her eyes for some hope, some reassurance, but all he could find was confused shock, and a haze of pain. Clutching his arms, she drew in a gasping, shuddering breath. 

"Imhotep?" Wincing at the thready wheeze he could hear in her voice, he gently lowered her to the ground, cradling her in his arms, refusing to abandon her to the cold stone of the floor. On her shirt, a blossom of red began to bloom, the stain spreading faster and faster as blood spilled from the wound in her upper abdomen. "I'm so…cold…"

"Shhh, my love," he whispered, pulling her tighter in his arms, willing the heat from his body into hers. If only he could transfer his life force with as much ease as mere warmth. He would give his life for hers without a second's hesitation, without a thought. As she had traded hers for his.

"Eliana, my love, hold on. Please…" His voice cracked and broke, and tears ran unheeded down his face as he stroked her face, her hair, desperate to touch her, hold her, keep her with him somehow, some way. "_Please_, Eliana. You cannot die. Gods, not again." Suddenly filled with a mindless, burning rage, he turned his face toward the heavens and let his wrath spill out, pouring from the depths of his soul. "_Not again!_"

By this time, Ardeth had made his way down from the upper mezzanine of the great hall, taking the stairs two and three at a time, and he skidded to a panting halt in front of them. He saw the extent of the damage, the amount of blood that she had already lost, and he cringed inwardly. No one could lose that much blood and survive… Haltingly, he put a tentative hand on Imhotep's shoulder. "Is she…"

Amazingly, the priest allowed the contact. "She is alive."

With an awkward squeeze of the Egyptian man's shoulder, Ardeth backed off. There was nothing he could do, and even less that he could say to offer comfort. Eliana's wound was mortal. It was only a matter of minutes before she was gone. The infernal cycle had begun yet again. With the guilt of centuries weighing him down, Ardeth turned away. He couldn't bear to watch as this unfolded.

She was weakening rapidly, but Eliana still had strength enough to lift her hand to Imhotep's face, the softness of her palm cupping the smooth-shaven skin of his cheek in a tender caress. "Imhotep, I'm…" she gasped again, struggling for breath. "I'm so…sorry." Her face wrinkled into a grimace as pain jolted through her. "Don't want…to…to leave you…again."

"My love—hold on, please, hold on…" Cracked, broken, his voice was a ragged sound of misery as he fought to hold the million fractured pieces of his heart together. "I love you, Eliana-- you are my life, my hope…"

Her strength was fading as fast as the color from her face. With one last effort, she lifted her hand, intending to caress him again, but in her weakness the movement fell short. Instead of touching him, her hand slowly dropped, making in its descent a heart-breaking imitation of the caressing gesture they had devised so long ago.

"Imhotep…" The sound was a breath, a whisper. "Love…you…"

He felt her go limp in his arms. No!_ No, no, no!_ Desperately, he touched her face, her lips; he even shook her slightly, trying to rouse her to consciousness once more. The healer in him, the part that knew what was happening, fell by the wayside as the grief-stricken man refused to surrender hope. "Eliana…"

"Imhotep." This time, it was Connelly's hand that fell on the priest's shoulder. Imhotep flinched away from the contact. "She's gone. I'm sorry, man. I'm so sorry…"

Imhotep pulled her even closer to him, cradling her head against his shoulder, rocking slowly back and forth. It suddenly registered in his befuddled brain that he could no longer feel the warmth of her breath against him and with a gasp of anguish he whispered her name. "Eliana…Anck-su-namun…gods, how can this be? This was our chance, our turn…" But the still beauty of her face was unresponsive—a motionless, perfect mask.

Slowly, the priest lifted his head, his pain-ridden eyes meeting and holding the solid, sympathetic blue of Connelly's gaze. Another irony—and the pain of this one struck and burned down to the very core of his new-found humanity. In his mind's eye, Imhotep could clearly see Rick O'Connell, crouched weeping by his dying wife Evelyn, as a coldly uncaring Imhotep and a viciously pleased Meela, Evelyn's blood staining her hands, walked past them and into the pyramid some seventy years ago. The circle had been drawn perfectly, with precise, merciless symmetry. Their punishment was coldly flawless, an emotionless rendering of karmic justice that was brilliant in its simplicity.

A perfect circle, ending where it had begun, only to start the endless cycle once more.

* * *

Imhotep had no words to express his emotions at that moment—the grief, the loss, the guilt—so he remained silent, and turned his eyes back to the face of the woman he loved. The woman he had lost yet again. He knew better, this time, than to even attempt to take matters into his own hands and try to bring her back. Even if he knew where to find the Black Book of the Dead, he would not use it. Better to let her go, to let her try to find some sort of peace. Amun-Re had lifted the curse from Imhotep's soul; perhaps it was not too much to hope that the curse had been lifted from hers, as well, here at the end. The highest imaginable price had now been extracted; how could her debt not have been repaid? 

Gently, he ran his hand over the coolness of her skin, tracing the line of her face, the arch of her brow, the curve of her lips. "Goodbye, my love," he whispered, "may the gods speed you on your way to the lands of the west, and may your soul live forever in the light of a thousand suns."

* * *

Callie raced down the staircase and across the room, followed by Robillard and a handful of technicians. The gunshots, although muffled by distance and the thick stone of the pyramid, had caught her attention as she made her way through the huge structure, looking for Bernstein. It was still his dig to manage, and he deserved to know about the incident in the lab. The faint popping sounds, two in quick succession, echoed by another, seconds later, had been followed by dead silence. The noises could have been anything, but some inner instinct told her they were not. Wheeling around, she had raced back to the lab, and rounded up whomever she could convince to come along. Robillard, by then suffering from a sore throat and a throbbing headache from his two-hour long bout of raging at his hapless staff, had decided to join them. The trip back to the great hall, where she thought the sounds had originated, took less than two minutes. 

With one quick glance, Callie took in the scene, noting the blood, the bodies, the grieving man, the shell-shocked witnesses. The Sudanese men—_Azziz? Who was the other?—_lying on the floor were obviously dead. But Eliana … She stepped forward, heading for Imhotep and the woman he cradled in his arms, but a hand on her wrist stopped her. Matt shook his head, a soundless warning against her intrusion. For a second, a feeling of dizziness washed over her, a shadow pain lanced through her, and she clutched at her own stomach. For a second, it was _her_ on the ground, _her_ life seeping out from her, and instead of Imhotep, it was Matt…_no, some other name, some other time_…cradling her close, weeping over the body of the woman he loved…

She stared at Eliana and saw her face blur, darken, replaced by another face—exotic, beautiful—a sneering, vicious face that took pleasure in the pain she caused with a brutal twist of the knife. Imhotep's visage remained the same, but the eyes—his eyes were hard, cold, empty of anything but a demonic glow and a single-minded thirst for vengeance and power. The man she had come to know—and even admire—over the last few days was gone, replaced by a menacing monster. A phantom pain struck her again, and she turned her face towards…_Rick?_…Matt, clutching at his arm for support as she felt her knees begin to buckle.

Connelly grabbed her by both arms as she teetered there, swaying in the gale force blast of some psychic hurricane. "Callie? Callie…what's wrong?" _Callie? That's not my name…why is he calling me that? My name is…name was…_ The name would not come to her, but the pain, the fear, the desperate sense of loss, they were real, so real. _Rick…take care…of… Alex…love you…_ Callie fought against the tide of otherness, struggling back through the undertow of long-dead feelings and memories, swimming back to herself against a dark, deep current that was determined to sweep her away.

Slowly, with the sensation of dead fingers loosing their grip on the last vestiges of the life they were leaving behind, the feeling of déjà vu passed, leaving behind nothing but a residual dizziness and a renewed awareness of the preciousness of life. With an angry frown, she shook off Connelly's restraining hands, leaving him to stand in dazed confusion, staring after her as she knelt beside the priest. The face that the Egyptian man turned towards her was the face she knew, and there was nothing in the dark depths of his eyes but an agony of pain and fear. And Eliana's face was only hers—no evil doppelganger lurked beneath the surface. _All was the same, yet all had changed…_

A gentle hand on Imhotep's arm was a voiceless request for permission, and as he moved slightly aside, she could see where the bullet had torn through cloth and flesh, ripping its way into Eliana's body. She saw the blood that pooled and puddled on the stone floor, and cringed inside. So much blood loss…

But the entry wound was on the upper right quadrant of the abdomen, which meant it had not come near the heart, had missed the stomach, and while it had resulted in massive blood loss, blood loss could be compensated for… Ripping off her sweater, she wadded it into place against the bullet wound and applied pressure to stop the steady flow. Placing two fingers on Eliana's neck, Callie felt for a pulse. Nothing. _No, wait!_ There it was, thready, weak, almost nonexistent…

Not looking, she called to the one person who she thought might be able to give her a truthful, reasonably accurate answer. "Matt, how long?"

"About a minute, maybe a little more, maybe a little less…" He instinctively knew she wanted to know how long Eliana had been unconscious. "But, Doc…

"Hush!" Tearing her stethoscope from around her neck, Callie shoved it into placed and listened. No breath sounds. It was almost too late… But almost wasn't certainty, and Callie had had enough of death and dying out here in this godforsaken jungle. Robillard was a colossal pain-in-the-ass, but his medical equipment was first-rate, and he had brought enough of it with him to fully outfit any surgical field hospital she had ever seen.

She turned to Imhotep, gently moving Eliana from his arms and laying her down on the floor. Although he would not have allowed Connelly, or even Ardeth Bay, to take her from him, something in the compassionate light in her eyes convinced Imhotep to surrender Eliana to Callie.

"I will try." She answered the unspoken question in his eyes, taking his hand and putting it in place where hers had been, pressing hard against the wound to staunch the blood. Her eyes not leaving the Egyptian man's, she moved slightly, shifting herself and Eliana into position as she called out to Robillard. "I'm starting CPR. There's still a chance. Looks like the bullet nicked the liver, maybe one of the major vessels, and it's still in there somewhere. There's still a pulse, but it's weak, and fading fast."

She folded her hands and began the rhythmic chest compressions that would do the work for Eliana's heart, stopped to breath into the other woman's mouth. When she resumed the compressions, she looked at the still-unmoving French doctor. "What the hell are you doing? Get your people moving, get a stretcher, and let's get going." She stopped to breath into Eliana's mouth once more. "Time to test out that fancy equipment of yours, and see if your surgical skills are as impressive as your ego."

His jaw dropping in open-mouthed shock, Robillard waved to his assistants, who had already anticipated the order and were halfway across the great hall and gaining speed. The infirmary was not that far away; the equipment was in reach. But even with Imhotep's hands holding back the tide of red and Callie doing the work of her heart and lungs, with every second that passed, more of Eliana's life seeped out onto the pyramid's cold golden floor.

* * *

Through the enveloping cold, she sensed the hands, felt the sudden weightlessness as she was lifted, lifted… Then, the hammock-like support of the stretcher and the jerky, bouncing motion of running feet. But all around, there was the cold, and the dark, and the emptiness… 

_Get that IV running. Push fluids… No! Let it run…wide open…_

Tired. She was so tired. The dark pulled at her, tugged at her with gentle hands, warm hands that were a comforting counterpoint to the icy cold that blanketed her, pushing down on her with a crushing heaviness. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could barely feel, barely hear…

_Pressure… 80 over…40…dropping… Can't…get…normal rhythm…tachycardia…dammit!…full arrest… Get…defibrillator… Shot of epi…directly in…heart…_

No pain, no sensation at all now. Just the dark, and the warmth and the feeling of being pulled away from something, somewhere… Strange, that sudden twinge of loss she felt. More like a feeling remembered than one that she actually experienced. Feelings were meaningless, nonexistent here. They were…before…ago…then… There was nothing now, nothing but the endless expanse of empty, vibrant darkness. It went on forever, limitless, boundless, empty of everything but full of all things… She felt herself seeping away, oozing out of her pores, floating off into the waiting nothingness…

Charge to 200… Clear… 

A jolt of white hot lightning flashed through her, and for a moment, no more, the weightless freedom was gone, and she felt an overpowering heaviness, a crushing sense of _being_. And the pain was back, and it hurt, hurt, _hurt_. The cold was replaced by white hot, fiery pain and she pulled away from it, struggling, flailing, the entire battle one of the psyche, not of the body. The dark called to her, but so did the light, and in the light there was something, something…no, some_one_. _Love you…Eliana…my love…Anck-su-namun…_ But the dark was insidious, powerful, seductive in its velvety omnipotence. The voice was a fading beacon, and the dark was everywhere, all around, and it was tempting, so tempting, to just let go, give in, go on…

Giving up? No!… Can't…any more…don't care… All right…one more time…charging… Clear… 

The lightning struck her again, but this time she was ready for it, pushing away from herself, from her body, slipping out silent and soundless from the constraints of flesh and blood, sinew and bone. There was a sense of letting go, a brief moment of loss, as that voice echoed through the vacuum once more, but the warmth was so comforting, so good…

Beyond hearing anything now, she surrendered herself to the emptiness and embraced the dark.


	24. Chapter 24

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

_This day I am with you. Stabbed by the light of the great mind I wake. The sun crests the hill and the hawk, according to a higher will, whirls and circumscribes day. I am called from my house. I shuffle sand underfoot, but my heart leaps. I open, am pierced by light. A cry escapes my lips. I know not what I say; it is the language of soul beneath skin, the song of birds in acacia trees._

_Beautiful is the golden seed from which the corn arises; beautiful the sun on the hill from which springs god's day. My body nourishes some unfolding time and purpose. I shine bronze as Hathor's mirror. My heart lifts like the sun. Passion and power quiver on the land, casting long shadows. Shot through with light, I glow and quiver. Stones of sunlight pile up in heaven. Emerald is truth when gods draw near. Blessed are we by sun._

_Ra is the child, a golden knot of flesh dropped from open air, bright star in the dark house of Osiris, heir to the ages, word edged into world. He grows a long beard and sits on the mountain, knowing its secrets. He rises from the flood. Drawing up water, he quenches the thirst of his people. They drink and enter the river. Always burning, always returning, always constant and new._

_It is his breath we breathe, his love that endures, his power that moves the world. We are the quivering of his arrows, the stirring of his hands. We are his spirit moving in matter. May the eye of god pierce us and give us the grace of his will. We are held in god's hands. Like the ocean, we whirl and remain the same. We are bound by law and held by the truth of change, that all seasons return, and that which was once and is no more shall come again._

_Sing then, rejoice and bind yourself to god's will. See how the seed falls from the tree and is buried. Die at once and live again. You shall grow like that sycamore, rooted in matter, bound for boundless sky. You shall be blown by the wind. You shall see the storm and sing its praises. You shall lie in the fields and kiss the earth. Raise your arms. You shall see the fury and power of god and change forever._

_Drink the cup of heaven. Let grace roll down your head like water. Drink in earth; take in the things of the world. The barley grows straight in rows; the young shoots unfurl according to a higher purpose. Truth rides visibly through the world. Have you not seen it? The sun shimmers with the power of gold. We are breathless in golden air. Drink in the light and praise the cup of forever that spills out the threads of eternity._

_--Excerpt from "Greeting Ra", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

The dark was soft, enveloping, eternal—the comforting warmth of the womb, the pitch black of the universe before time began. It was everywhere, everything—the void, the abyss, creation waiting for the single word of awakening. She was a part of it all, a tiny speck in the vastness of possibility, and the incredible tranquility of being encompassed by this endless vacuum of potentiality surrounded her and warmed her and made her feel totally loved, totally cherished, totally at peace.

She remembered nothing, was nothing, felt nothing but the remarkable sense of harmony and completeness. She was not just one being, but many; she felt the presence of the others, was a part of them, yet still somehow distinct. It was everything, she was everything—it was beyond description, and she never wanted the feeling to end. There could be nothing more than this, nothing better than this, nothing more fulfilling. _And yet…_

Far off in the black depths of eternity, a single pinpoint of light bloomed, and she felt the change it wrought, felt the pitch of the soundless music change, sharpen, become more distinct. The light grew, drew nearer, and then came the Voice.

"Awaken, child."

It reverberated in her mind, a thing of depth and purity and an ageless, timeless beauty that she could barely comprehend, even unfettered as she was by corporeal limitations. It was a Voice that inspired awe, and could have invoked fear, had she sensed any malevolence at all in its tone. There was none—just an expansive, all-encompassing love that warmed her like the summer sun.

"Who are you?" Instinctively, she phrased the question in her mind, knowing that the radiant Voice would hear.

"Whom do you believe me to be, child?" The Voice spoke softly, tenderly, but with a hint of exasperation; a creator to an errant creation.

"I don't know." But another question invaded her mind, this one more pressing than the first. "Am I…" she hesitated, although she knew there was no reason to be afraid of forming the word. She was safe, here. "Am I…dead? Is this…"

Gently, the Voice corrected her. "You are in a place of…waiting. It is neither the old nor the new, the past nor the future, the life you left behind nor the life in the realm beyond. It simply…is."

"So I _am_ dead," she persisted.

"You are…making a transition."

It was not a direct answer, but she sensed it was all the Voice would provide. But her earlier question had not been answered, either. "Who are you?"

"I am," intoned the Voice, and the answer rang a bell somewhere in the depths of her mind, somewhere far off, long ago, distant and faint with time. "I am who I shall be."

It clicked into place, even with no solitary mountain to climb, no burning bush before which to kneel. "You are…God?"

"You and your forebears would know me as such," agreed the Voice. "They would call me the god of their ancestors—Abraham, Isaac, Moses. Some from your time would know me as Allah, while some would see me as a triune entity. Still others would recognize me as a being of nature, of the rocks and hills and plants and trees of Earth and elsewhere. To them, I am Spirit. Others yet would see me in the flaming wheel of the sun as it crosses the sky, and call me Ra. Some say I am many, some say I am one. I tell you—all those are part truth, part illusion. I am known by many names, but always have I been known." It paused. "I am."

Silence fell, and stretched, and filled the void as the light ebbed and flowed in a pulsing sphere of being.

Afraid to shape the question, she did so anyway, the formless words faint with an uneasy disquiet. "Why am I here?"

"You cannot yet pass beyond this place," the Voice explained, patient and loving as a father to a favored child. "A price has been exacted, but a choice must be made, and damage must be repaired, regardless of that choice."

"A price?"

"A kind of price, yes." The Voice stopped, seeming to ponder its choice of words. "Better still; let us say your soul has been tested." It paused again. "It has passed its test. The first test."

"What sort of test have I passed?"

"You have learned love, child. Love that gives of itself and asks nothing in return. Love that offers great sacrifice without expecting any reward. Love that dies so that another may live." An indulgent glow bathed her soul. "That has been your first test, and was the first price. You have paid it."

"And the other tests?" She was afraid, now. She sensed the importance of this time, these trials, and she feared them—feared that she would be tested, and found wanting.

As if sensing her apprehension, the Voice quieted, grew more serious. "There is but one."

"Only one?" she asked, frightened of the answer. "What is this test?"

It was a whisper in her mind. "You must learn to face the darkness within your own soul." A tendril of thought, the Voice drifted like smoke through her mind, billowing into the dim, hidden corners where the shadows lay, seeing all. "You must face it, and accept it. Then will the broken pieces become one. Then will you be whole." A pause, as the voice allowed her to assimilate this. "Then will the curse be ended."

"I don't understand," she protested, although a small part of her mind whispered to her that she _did_. She had known it all along, sensed it during the lonely years of her childhood, ignored it during the deceptively tranquil years of her late adolescence and early adulthood, and had it hammered painfully into cognition in the blazing forge of the last few days of her lifetime just past. The darkness was there, a hated blot hovering just outside the periphery of her being, a stain constantly threatening to bleed and spread and permeate her existence. She had fought it, ignored it, raged against it, fled from it, and now, finally, the time for running was past. "Why? Why should I accept it? It's bad—evil—I should erase it from existence, not _accept_ it as part of me."

"You speak as a mortal still, my child," said the Voice, patient as ever. "The truth is that all creation is forged of light and dark; there is balance in all, beauty in the antithesis, harmony in the opposition. What is love without hate, rage without indifference, joy without despair? For one to exist, so must the other. There is no denying the nature of things, child.

"Your denial of who you are is a part of the curse that blights your soul."

"My curse was to never be allowed to pass through to the next world," she stated, remembering it from somewhere, sometime. "To be trapped forever in an endless cycle of death and rebirth." She considered where she was now, and humor, apparently not tethered to the human form, reared its head. "I seem to be making some progress in _that_ regard, anyway…"

The Voice was a low rumble through the darkness, almost a chuckle. "You _have_ progressed in that regard. And that is the choice you have purchased in passing the first test. You will be allowed to cross over, should the remaining obstacle be removed."

"You mean…there is more than one curse?"

"A curse is perhaps not the right frame of reference. You suffer an…affliction of the soul, a scourge that was not placed by those who sought to curse you, but by another." Deceptively soft, the Voice dealt the killing blow. "You were damned by he who sought to save you, doomed not by hate, but by overreaching love." It continued, perceiving her confusion. "Again, there is balance in the end. Acts of love can birth evil, just as evil can forge love. He who sought to save you, by spitting in the face of the natural order, by meddling with the divine, _by opening and reading from the accursed book_, doomed you."

_He_. It was important, somehow, that this nameless _he_ be given a name, but she was unable to do so, powerless to dredge it up from the forgotten path she had just traveled. _He…love…_ She fought harder, strained against the ephemeral bonds of oblivion that held her. _He…loved…me…_ _Who_ had loved her? Why was that question now so vitally important?

"You struggle overmuch, child," the Voice rebuked, albeit gently. "Quiet your mind, and let the memories return."

"How…"

"They are a part of you; they have never been gone," the Voice explained, ever loving, ever patient. "They were simply…misplaced."

She waged a small battle within herself, but finally managed to still the confusion, calm the anxiety. As the furor quieted, she felt a door within her mind creep open, sensed a pathway clear, broaden. Slowly, cautiously, the memories began to cross the barrier, trickling back into her consciousness like the first runnels of thawing snow before the spring melt. Slowly, then faster and faster, the memories came, now a stream, now a flood, now a cascading torrent of feeling and emotion that swept away everything in their path. The floodgates were unlocked, the dam was breached, and she…

_She remembered._

And with the memory came the emotion, and with the emotion, the longing. Fear, pain, grief, loss…and an overpowering, unending, enduring love. _She remembered_.

"Imhotep." The name itself was a memory, happiness twined irrevocably with grief; love forever bound to loss.

"You have remembered your past. Good. All is well." The observation was nearly lost to her, caught as she was in the tide of her returning memories.

* * *

Connelly could feel the cold stench of perspiration caking his shirt as he raced down the slick-floored tunnel to the grotto. _How much time? Was there enough? Had Hassan managed to…?_

The Sudanese intelligence officer appeared at the end of the corridor, wiping his hands with a spotless handkerchief. Connelly slid to a stop in front of him.

"Did you do it?" he panted, out of breath and afraid of what he'd hear. "Did you disarm the bomb?"

Hassan flicked his cold black gaze over Connelly's flushed features. Not so much as a hair was out of place on his head—he was as impeccably groomed as ever. There was no sign that he'd just been in a race to stop a clock that was ticking out the last minutes of their lives. There was also no sign as to whether or not he'd won that race. He went back to cleaning the remaining dirt smudges from his hands.

"Our fanatical friends were not _that_ advanced," Hassan observed, just a trace of self-satisfaction leaching through. "It was a crude device—child's play to dismantle."

Connelly visibly sagged with relief. "Thank god," he said, his usual sarcasm set aside for now, replaced with a more heartfelt emotion. Hassan had bought Callie and the medical team the time they'd need in the improvised surgery to try to do what they could for Eliana. He'd tried to tell Callie about the bomb, that it wasn't safe for any of them to stay inside the pyramid, no matter how much they needed the surgical equipment in the infirmary. Her hands covered in Eliana's blood, Callie had glared at him in disbelief. Shaking her head, she'd pushed past him, following the stretcher carrying Eliana. "You'll just have to get rid of the bomb, then, won't you, Matt?" she'd tossed over her shoulder, already walking away.

"Thank god," Connelly repeated, a weary smile on his face as he looked at Hassan.

Hassan cocked an eyebrow at the American. "God had nothing to do with it, Connelly," he said, heading up the tunnel. "But as for _me_… You're welcome."

* * *

Awash in the remembering, adrift in the feelings, Eliana floated in the drifting ebb and flow of a lifetime of memories. The Voice let her wander there for a time, then called her back to herself, to the present, and to the remaining trial. 

"Now comes the test." The Voice spoke, its pitch deep and solemn, and she focused on the void, felt a disturbance in the darkness, an eddying current that swirled and writhed. She knew this was a precursor to the test, a forerunner of what was to come, but…

"Wait!" her mind cried, needing to know. "Imhotep. He is…alive? The curse has been lifted from him?"

"He is mortal, and he lives, and his soul bears no trace of the evil that marked it." The Voice seemed pleased by this—pleased, even, that she had asked.

"Thank you." Her relief was palpable, as alive as the swirling morass that surrounded her. Letting go, for now, of her fear for him, she focused on the undercurrent in the darkness, and for the first time, she felt them, felt their presence.

The…_others_.

Souls waited there, watched her with unseeing eyes, souls that had once lived, and breathed, and loved, and hated, and died…and been consigned to this hazy nothingness since that time.

How many were there? 

More than one, more than two, although she only had names for two, names that he—Imhotep—had provided. But there were more, many more, countless souls, lifetime upon lifetime. Souls—or rather, partial souls—_bas_—that had been born, died, and gone on, leaving the _ka_ to begin the endless cycle once more. The _ka_ that had last resided within _her_ mortal body.

"Who are they?" she whispered, already knowing the answer. She could feel them, pushing up against the darkness, surging within it like an unstoppable tide.

"They are who you have been, child," answered the Voice, not unkindly. "They are a part of you, as you are a part of them."

"But…" The protest broke forth, a cry from the depths of her soul. "But…you said before that I was not whole, that pieces were missing." She was terrified now, of what that meant, of what the test would be. "I don't believe you! I _am_ whole. I _am_ complete! I do not need them!" She panicked now, afraid of the greedy flood of hungry spirits, afraid of the unseen hoard, terrified of what it would require of her to accept this…to accept _them_.

"You believe that to be so," said the Voice, a quiet, still presence in her mind, stable and solid in the midst of the chaos. "Yet it is _not_ so."

"But _why_?" Terror spilled from her thoughts, seeped from her mind, rancid and sour. "_How?_"

"It was the Book, child," said the Voice. "The Black Book." The Voice directed a thought to the clamoring spirits, and the din seemed to subside slightly. "It is not for mortal hands to open the book; not for human mouths to speak the words. The spells bound within its obsidian pages contain varying degrees of evil. The only spell with the power to do what he required—bring back the soul of one so long gone, and cursed, as well—was the one that should never be attempted by a mortal—especially not by a mortal that carried such rage within his heart."

"But what happened?"

"The spell fed upon the rage in the soul that channeled the power, and the rage corrupted the spell, perverted it, turned it into a thing of destruction, instead of the rebirth that was his true intent." The Voice paused, as if pondering something. "He could not have known this; he had no way to know such a thing. It is part of the Book's legacy—has been since the dawn of time, when first it was created. The Book contains secrets not meant for mortal eyes. That is why it is forbidden."

"But he was stopped. Both times he tried to use the Book, he was interrupted…"

"One time, he was not."

_Meela_. Of course. The vicious, murdering bitch who had, in the end, betrayed him. _Meela_ was the product of the Book's power—and its devastation.

"That is not entirely true, child," warned the Voice, reading her thoughts as easily as if she had shouted them aloud. "The spell simply…amplified…what was already there. By then, the damage was already done."

"What _damage_?" Frustration colored her voice, making it the equivalent of a mental shriek. She didn't _feel_ damaged.

"The Book caused a …splintering, of sorts." The Voice was matter-of-fact, as if it was explaining a simply, ordinary process, rather than outlining the process by which a soul was doomed. "It acted with the curse already placed by the others, and created a permanent rift. The curse placed by your enemies tied your _ka_ to the earth, doomed it to cycle after cycle of rebirth." It paused; then finished the explanation. "The curse inadvertently placed by he who loved you took the same route with your _ba_—tethering it to this murky realm of betweenity, rather than leaving it the freedom to cross to the other side."

"But…_you_ can allow them to cross, surely," she rationalized. She wanted nothing more than for these shadowy half-beings that she sensed were waiting for…_something_….to go far, far away from her. "Let them pass through."

"There is but one way for them to do that, child," said the Voice, a note of sadness creeping into it. "You sense this as well, do you not?"

She did. She could feel each individual _ba_ hovering in the ether, sense it, recognize it on some primal level. Worse yet, she could sense the empty spot inside her own psyche where it…_fit_.

"No!"

"That is a choice you must make, child," allowed the Voice. "That is the test you must pass. But be warned," it said, dropping lower, a note of forbidding entering it. "By refusing them, you condemn yourself to the same fate."

"_Refusing_ them? What do they _want?_"

"They wish to be whole again."

"You mean, to leave this place, to go on…"

Again, the voice plucked the half-formed thought from her mind. "What was damaged must be repaired; what was torn must be mended. To gain your freedom, you must accept who you are, who _they_ are, who you are together."

"But…some of them were evil—I know at least _one_ of them was…"

"All creation is a mixture of light and shadow." The Voice was cool, cruel in its heartless logic. "Why should you be exempt from this law? To gain your freedom, you must accept this as true; you must face your own inner darkness and accept it as a part of who you are."

"There is no other way?" Her mind begged, pleaded for some other choice, some other way.

"There is not."

"And after this…" she questioned. "What then? You spoke of another choice…"

"You will decide whether to cross to the other side, or to return to the lifetime you have left behind."

"You mean I can…go back?" she asked, hope painting the question with wonderment. "It is not too late?"

"Time has no meaning here, child," explained the Voice, patient as always. "It simply…is."

A vision formed in her mind, a face swam into her consciousness—two gold-flecked eyes in a lean, bronze face. Imhotep. _My love._

"I want to go back."

"You know then," intoned the Voice, "what is required of you."

* * *

"She's back." The nurse sounded shocked, as she watched the beeping peaks and valleys of the heart monitor. "Normal cardiac rhythm and holding." 

Robillard threw Callie a look that was a mixture of disbelief and grudging respect. One autocratic brow arched in a brief salute. "Well done, Doctor," he admitted. "I would have given up before now."

Callie's hands were shaking as she set the paddles aside. "There's been enough death here already." Her legs were shaking, too, as reaction to the earlier surge of adrenalin finally began to set in. But there was no time to coddle herself, and she shook off the weakness. "Can you do this, Robillard?"

He paused in the middle of issuing an order to the nurse. "I may be a researcher today, but let me assure you, Doctor al Faran, my medical training was provided by the French military, and I served in a variety of field hospitals on several continents for six years." He seemed offended that she would doubt him. "You go and make sure we have a helicopter standing by to fly her to Khartoum after we're done here. I can manage to patch her up until we can get her to a real hospital."

Callie nodded, and started to leave. Imperiously, he demanded, "And hurry up, get back here, and scrub in. You'll be assisting."

Ignoring her internal panic, Callie did as she was told. She hurried.

* * *

For once in his life, apart from the years he'd spent as an acolyte in the temple, subject to his master's—the old high priest's—whims, Imhotep willingly followed another person's command. 

He waited.

It should have grated on him, to allow Robillard to issue preemptively dictatorial orders as he had, commanding everyone save the hastily drafted surgical team to remain outside—outside the pyramid itself, preferably, or at the very least, in one of its outer rooms. It should have offended him, to be summarily dismissed as he had been, pushed out of the infirmary by well-meaning but impersonally resolute hands. He, after all, was a healer as well, although he recognized that the extent of Eliana's injuries were far, far beyond anything he could hope to repair.

He should have been all of those things—angry, annoyed, offended—but he was none of them. He was numb. The shock of everything that had happened had finally settled on him, and the resulting deadening of feeling, of sensation, of reaction, was a merciful fog that obscured what otherwise would surely have been a heavy enough blanket of grief that it would have crushed the life from him. As it was, he was in a daze, wandering aimlessly through the outer passageways of the pyramid. Some instinct kept him well away from the great hall. He had no desire to go anywhere near it—he would happily never set eyes on _any_ of it ever again—the hulking golden tomb, the seething sea of evil green that surrounded it, the ocean of sand beyond. If somehow he—and Eliana—could put all of it behind them, walk away from it all—if some miracle would allow that—he would happily never look back.

_Eliana_.

The grief threatened to burst through, and he called up the numbness again, desperate to hold it back. He couldn't let it breach the barrier he'd erected against it, or it would eat him alive, consume his spirit like the carnivorous scarabs consumed flesh. The anesthetized wasteland surrounding his heart was a poor fortress, but it was all that stood between him and grief- and guilt-induced insanity. It _had_ to hold.

The sound of voices reached him, and with a lackluster curiosity, he followed the sound to a small antechamber, just inside the pyramid's outer walls. Dispiritedly, he watched the tableau unfolding inside.

He recognized Jean Godfrey from his brief visits to the infirmary. An Englishman—Charles, he thought, fluttered in nervous, stuttering agitation over a lightweight gurney that held Eliana's father. Doctor Godfrey was trying, in vain, and in what was a surprising lack of patience, for her, to convince Charles to stay with Bernstein until she could get back to the infirmary and send out a med tech to watch over him until he regained consciousness. A few of the English words, Imhotep could by now pick out and understand. The rest was meaningless gibberish.

He was about to retreat back down the hallway, leaving them to complete their strange drama on their own, when Charles caught sight of him. In a flurry of movement, the Englishman raced to his side and latched on, a drowning man making a desperate grab for a life raft.

"Imhotep! Thank heavens!" Although he was hopeless in the field, the British archaeologist was no slouch with regard to academics, and his Hebrew was flawless. "This…this woman wants me to stay with John until she sends a nurse back, and I don't, I can't… Well, dammit! I'm no doctor! What if he wakes up? What if he's in pain? What do I do? How do I tell him about…?" He broke off, even in his self-centeredness knowing instinctively not to mention her name, at least not now.

Imhotep looked away from the babbling Briton, first to Bernstein, then to the doctor. Jean rolled her eyes, a non-vocal indictment of the still-babbling Charles. Another glance at Bernstein revealed that he was breathing deeply, steadily. His only injury had been the blow to the head—he should be coming around soon. Watching over an unconscious man was surely well within Imhotep's capabilities.

"Go," he instructed Charles. "You are useless here. Tell the doctor I will stay with him until he awakens."

Charles nodded and swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a bouncing ball. A hasty stream of English directed towards the doctor was followed by his hasty retreat. He nearly ran from the room.

"Thank you," offered Jean, with a wry grimace towards the empty space where Charles had stood. That phrase Imhotep did know, and he nodded his acceptance of her thanks. "Someone will be along shortly," she promised, and though he didn't understand that, he nodded again as she turned to leave.

On her way to the door, Jean hesitated, not sure if she should push the subject or not, but unwilling to leave without at least offering some words of comfort, however small. She came back, placing a soothing hand on Imhotep's arm. "She's in good hands," she assured him, although she knew he probably didn't understand a word she was saying. "Robillard's a good doctor, even though he's a colossal windbag. And Callie is a wonder—she has more heart than anyone I know. She won't give up on her." As she had expected, the words were unintelligible to him, but the warm sympathy in the woman's blue-gray eyes needed no translation. Imhotep managed a weak smile in return.

With a final pat on the arm, Jean left, and Imhotep was alone with the unconscious man. Leaning against a nearby wall, he settled in to keep his vigil.

* * *

Eliana could feel the spirits pressing closer, seeming to sense her weakening resolve. All around her the nameless, faceless wraiths circled, watching, waiting. _Hoping_. 

"I am afraid," she said, though the admission was unnecessary. The Voice already knew.

"That is understood, child," it said, something approaching sympathy in its deep resonance. "And understandable, as well. Perhaps this will assist you in overcoming your fear."

A command went forth, into the ether, and slowly at first, then more and more violently, a churning began. At the center of the disturbance, one shape, one specter, separated itself from the rest, and moved closer. Tentatively, fearfully, Eliana reached out with her mind, summoning the courage to face this nameless, unknown entity. Though eyes were useless here, her mind provided an image for her through the mental contact—sleek, ebony hair; dark, almond-shaped eyes; a tall, dark-skinned, voluptuous body. Eliana gasped as she recognized the face in her mind.

"You are…"

"I am Anck-su-namun," the other offered, speaking through the silent mental channel. Egyptian, Hebrew, English—the language was irrelevant; the dialect of the mind was universal. "I am who you once were."

Eliana felt a wave of psychic dizziness wash over her, a fast and furious storm of feelings and emotions. Facing this wraith from the past was like looking into a warped mirror where a familiar image is distorted, altered, made unrecognizable. She knew that the face in her mind was one she had once worn, but it felt alien, the visage of a stranger.

Eliana turned helplessly towards the Voice, looking for guidance, but finding none. It had withdrawn, retreated, leaving her along to face her nemesis…her past.

The shadow neared. "Imhotep?" it asked, the mental note it struck one of endless love, hopeless longing. "He is alive? Well? Returned from the hell to which he was consigned?"

Eliana dismissed the strangeness, the odd sensation that she was talking to herself, and answered the apparition. "He lives, and the curse is lifted."

"Thank the gods!" Relief first, followed almost immediately by a forlorn sort of guilt-ridden yearning. "And has he…forgiven? Or does hate now fill his heart, where love once grew?"

Eliana's head swam. "There was much anger," she allowed, "much bitterness. But he has forgiven…you. And he loves…" _Me? You? Us?_

The other seemed to nod, then backed away. "Wait!" cried Eliana, and the shade paused. "Do you all remember your lives? Do you all remember _him_?"

The manifestation nodded again. "We remember who we were when last we walked the earth. For some, those memories have faded in the eons that have passed. Others remember more clearly. And…" Grief shot through the mental highway connecting them. "Only two of us, save you, were ever able to walk with him, however briefly." A pain-filled pause. "_We_ remember."

The spirit went on, and Eliana could swear that the entity's silent voice carried the suggestion of barely checked tears. "On some level, we _all_ remember, no matter how rich or wonderful a life we led. Always, there is the shadow of loss; always, there is the emptiness; always, there is the yearning."

Eliana could sense the return of the light; feel the Voice's presence drawing near once more. One last time, she looked at the hovering shade. An understanding, of sorts, had been forged. Eliana knew the emptiness that Anck-su-namun's shade had spoken of; how often had she felt that herself? And the longing? It was an ever-present ache in her soul. The love? It burned like a pure flame—eternal, everlasting, spanning the eons that had passed, making the dust of centuries seem but a moment.

She knew what was being asked of her, knew what was required. It frightened her, but to some extent, it shamed her as well. What price, after all, was she willing to pay to return to him, to have one more chance at a lifetime with the man she loved beyond death, the man she had spent millennia trying to find? And what price had he already paid; what endless suffering had he endured, through the eternity of years? What was he suffering now, believing that he had failed once more, believing her to be lost to him forever? He had made his choice, given up everything for her once again. Never once had he hesitated, never once had he faltered.

No, he had not failed her. It was _she_ who was weak—Imhotep had proven his love over and over again, demonstrated the strength and steadfastness of his heart during every one of his awakenings. She had failed, every single time. And that, too, shamed her.

But no more. With this one, last test, she could repair the damage, right the wrongs, cast off the remnants of curse that held her. Imhotep had done his part—had done _more_ than his part. It was her turn, now. If this was the only way back…

She spoke before the Voice had a chance to form the question. "I have made my decision. Do what you must." Resolve firmed her thoughts, gave them strength and substance. "I will return."

* * *

Akil Hamid slammed down the radio's microphone, anger and desperation in every move he made. Shakily, he removed the headset as well, and more gently, laid it down on the table. Ardeth looked on, impatient, but willing to wait a few moments for the other man to collect himself. 

"They said…" Hamid stopped, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "They said the helicopter we've been using for supplies is unavailable for several days, even for an emergency. It's being repaired. And all their other choppers are already chartered."

"_What?"_ Ardeth nearly shouted in frustrated disbelief. They had to have some way of airlifting Eliana to a real hospital in Khartoum, after the doctors here did what they could for her. Callie had been adamant about that. The best they could hope to accomplish here was to stabilize her and do some hasty field repairs. To survive, Eliana would need the full services of a real medical facility, and soon. "We _have_ to have a helicopter."

A crashing from the trees drew their attention to the jungle. The sound grew louder, nearer, and finally they could make out a familiar form approaching through the brush.

Robert Price emerged from the green fortress of the jungle, shoving a bloody, dazed man ahead of him. They both looked bedraggled, but the stranger had definitely gotten the worst of it. A black eye, split lip and bruised cheekbone marred his features, and those were only the injuries that were visible to the eye. From the way he gingerly held his side, it seemed a sure bet that he had a cracked rib or two, as well. Price simply looked disheveled.

"Mr. Price?" Akil sounded stunned—in the chaos of the last half hour or so, he had completely forgotten about Price's foray into the wilds of Ahm Shere. "What has happened?"

"Our friend, here," he prodded the man's back with his gun, "didn't seem interested in cooperating when I showed an interest in why he was flying a helicopter into Ahm Shere." He stopped, clapping a pseudo-friendly hand on the man's shoulder. The dark-skinned Sudanese groaned and fell to his knees. Price smiled. "I was able to convince him to fill me in on who he was meeting." An ominous darkness shone from his eyes as he surveyed the area. "Where are Azziz and Bashir?"

"They are…" Hamid started, only to stop when Ardeth placed a hand on his arm.

"They won't be needing a ride," said the Med Jai, stepping forward. "But we _do_ need that helicopter…"

"But who will fly it?" worried Hamid, his eyes darting back and forth between the others.

"I will," supplied Price, laughing at their surprise. Puffing out his chest, he informed them, "Six years in Her Majesty's Service. I can fly any model chopper they make, except the newer ones—too many gadgets in those." He gave the Sudanese man a shove, sending him facedown into the dirt. "But the one this scum flew in is an old one. I could fly it blindfolded."

* * *

"You are sure?" The Voice held no surprise, just a question. 

"I am," she vowed, turning away from the seething darkness and towards the pulsating brilliance. "If this is what I must do to return to Imhotep, I will do it."

"Your love is that strong, then? That lasting?" There was curiosity in its tone, but approval as well. "You would face what you fear most, and conquer that fear, all for the love of this mortal?"

"If it were necessary, I would give up my own soul for his." It was a repetition of the assertion she'd made to Ardeth, an eternity of hours ago.

"Child, you are giving up nothing," said the Voice, gentle assurance in its ageless beauty. "You are not selling your soul. You are claiming the lost pieces of it, the fractionated parts that have been lost over the centuries."

"I have a question, before you…begin."

"Speak," instructed the Voice. "We have all the time we need."

"What will I _be_, when it is done?" A trace of the old fear was back in her voice, making it quaver. Fear of losing herself, fear of giving up what made her unique, a distinct individual, separate from these other lives. Fear; always the fear.

The Voice seemed almost to laugh. "You will be who always you were," it answered. "No less, and yet much more."

"Will I be _them_, too?"

A sound of assent entered her mind. "You will be them, they will be you. But your fear is groundless. Always has it been, always will it be so. Your memories will be theirs, as theirs will be yours. But parts of this connectedness exist already—look within. You know it to be true."

One last time, the Voice assured her. "Have faith in the rightness of nature. Trust that the laws by which the universe is governed are unerring. Believe, child." The light grew fractionally brighter, moved a tiny bit closer. "Believe."

Eliana hovered in the middle of the conflagration—the light on one side, the dark on the other—a lone speck of almost-mortal humanity in the midst of a swirling metaphysical haze. One last time, she faced her doubts, her fear, her hesitation. One last time.

Then, she closed her mind to them, instead grasping onto the image that had sustained her for so long. Imhotep. Casting aside the emotions that fed her weakness, the feelings that would hold her back, she grasped onto the ones that would carry her through—faith, hope, love.

_And the greatest of these…_

"I am ready."

The Voice said no more, but the light flared white hot, burning cold, blazing, growing, expanding in a flaming burst of magnificence, enveloping her, engulfing the darkness as well, obscuring and obliterating everything with the pure fire of Creation. In a moment, the light had claimed all, sweeping everything it had gathered up into its fiery crucible of restoration. It swept through her, around her, within her, and it brought with it the others, except now they were others no more. Like shards of broken pottery, threads ripped unfinished from the loom, they were bits and pieces of a greater whole, a puzzle that had stood fragmented and forgotten for centuries and only now was being assembled. In the swirling vortex of light, the pieces came together, the threads knit themselves into an unbroken skein once more, and the shards fell seamlessly into place.

_You shall see the fury and power of god and change forever…

* * *

_

Bernstein regained consciousness with a gasping moan, raising one hand to weakly clutch at his head, using the other to try to lever himself up from the gurney.

Imhotep was there in an instant, gently but relentlessly pushing the older man back down. Bernstein's eyes snapped open; his brows drew together in a fierce frown.

"Imhotep." It sounded more like an accusation than a name. "What the hell has happened?" Frantically, Bernstein looked around, wincing as pain shot through his head. Reluctantly, he lay back down. "Where is Eliana?"

_And how could he answer that?_ With the whole, painful truth, or a kinder lie? In the end, Imhotep settled for a mixture of the two.

"She is with the doctors."

"Ellie was injured?" Bernstein, dazed, groggy and in pain though he was, would not let this go. "How badly is she hurt? Will she be all right? _What happened?_"

How long could he keep the truth from Eliana's father? Not long. The man was obstinate, determined, and Eliana was, after all, his daughter. With an audible sigh, Imhotep released a tiny bit of information.

"The doctors are trying to repair the damage. She was injured…"

Bernstein cut him off. "_How_ was she injured? How bad is it? Damn you, man—tell me! She's my _daughter_."

Imhotep stared unblinkingly at Bernstein, his dark eyes quietly reflective. How much could he—or should he—tell him? Could the older man withstand the shock, the grief, of not knowing if his daughter would live? Could Imhotep himself withstand the telling of it?

Bernstein reached out a shaky arm, taking one of Imhotep's hands in his own. The older man's face, once resilient with an age-defying youthfulness, now looked every one of its fifty-four years. His eyes were old, as well, sunken and shadowed. His voice shook when he spoke. "_Please_. Please tell me what happened."

Imhotep hesitated for a second more, not wanting to relive the memory himself, but understanding Bernstein's need to know. In the end, he could not refuse the man's heartrending plea. "Lie still. I will tell you everything."

The tale took less time to relate than he would have thought, and Bernstein, amazingly, was quiet through its telling. Only at the end, when Imhotep's voice fell silent, did the older man speak.

"Damn them!" he swore, his voice a harsh sound of pain. "All this—for what? Their religion? Their god?"

Imhotep watched as the man raged. Mercifully, the numbness was still there for him, hiding his own grief, masking his own rage. "Two of them are already dead—and no doubt damned by their own god. The others are imprisoned, and will be brought to justice. All that is left now is to wait, and hope, and pray."

Bernstein looked up at Imhotep, and in the wake of his own pain, looked beyond it, and saw the deep well of torment in the Egyptian man's eyes. An almost visceral shock passed through him as he recognized it for what it was—an agonizing grief, born of… _Born of…_

"You love her?" he asked, shell-shocked and wondering how all this could have transpired in a matter of days. Had he been so preoccupied, so distanced, that he hadn't realized the true depth of what was building between his daughter and this man? "You are in love with my daughter?"

_Why deny it? What point would there be to such a disavowal?_ Imhotep turned his golden brown gaze on the older man, letting him see the truth of the words he spoke, and the depth of his emotion. "I love her beyond words, beyond reason, beyond life itself. She is a treasure beyond price, more precious than anything in this life or the next." He stopped, closing his eyes, grimacing as he fought to keep the ramparts he'd built around his despair in place. "Yes," he finally finished. "I love her."

Bernstein stared at the man, his mouth opening and closing several times, not sure of what to say. "I see," was the best he could do, and he cursed himself at his inadequacy. "And Eliana? Does she return this love?"

Imhotep couldn't look at Eliana's father any longer, for fear of giving in to his pain, his grief, all the pent up heartache he was barely holding in check. All he could manage, as he tore his eyes away, was a choked "Yes."

"I see," Bernstein repeated. For a long while, neither of them spoke, each caught up in their own private misery, their own personal anguish as the interminable waiting dragged on. Then, Bernstein extended his hand tentatively, reaching for and taking the younger man's hand once again, giving it an encouraging squeeze. "She'll make it," he tried to reassure them both. The assertion rang hollow, but it was at least an effort at optimism, an attempt at hope. At this point, it was all that either of them had.

Imhotep looked back to Bernstein, and their eyes met and held, golden brown meeting steely blue, and the in the depths of their shared despair, a bond was forged between them, an allegiance formed from the love they both felt for the same woman—to one, a daughter, to the other, a shining dream that had sustained him through hell itself.

_Hope_. It was all they had. For now, it would have to be enough.

* * *

"It is finished, child," said the Voice, rousing her gently from the drifting half-sleep she'd fallen into. "You have passed the test. It is complete." 

"But…" The disorientation fading, Eliana searched her mind. She felt the same. No lurking presences, no sense of otherness, no feeling of her mind being invaded. "It can't be finished," she protested. "I don't feel any different at all."

"You are _not_ different," chuckled the Voice. "You are who always you have been. But what was missing is now replaced. The brokenness has been repaired." It waited while she searched inside herself once more. "Look for the memories, child. They will show you the truth of it."

* * *

Callie was exhausted in both mind and body when she finally walked out of the pyramid's perpetual dimness and into the quickly fading daylight. She took a moment to lean against the golden stone of the arched doorway, sucking in a deep breath of the hot, damp air. The smell of plants and trees assaulted her senses, the smell of the jungle, but it was a blessed relief from the dry, stale air inside the pyramid, and she welcomed the change. 

With a groan, she straightened, pressing a hand against her back to ease the tired muscles. She felt like she'd been in surgery for days, instead of hours, and the kink in her back was a reminder of the strain she'd been under. But she couldn't dally here forever—there were people waiting for her, desperate for the news she'd bring. Squinting into the dusky twilight, she headed instinctively for the mess tent, knowing that's where the little company would assemble.

As she rounded the corner of the structure, the last few rays of setting sun glinted off the rotors of the old-model helicopter idling in the small clearing. "Thank god," she whispered. They'd managed to get the chopper. Eliana's chances for survival had just gotten better. Her gaze shifted to the man sitting in the pilot's seat, familiarizing himself with the controls. _Robert Price? What was he doing in there?_ Ah well, that was one question she didn't need answered right now. What mattered was that it was there, and ready, and they had a way to get Eliana to Khartoum.

The moment she stepped inside the tent, all conversation halted, all heads swiveled to watch her. She paid no attention to the others—there were only two people whom she cared about finding right now. Scanning the assemblage, she spotted Bernstein, propped up in the most comfortable chair they had, holding an ice pack to the back of his head, looking like he'd aged fifteen years since she'd last seen him. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and his skin drooped, sallow and slack, from his jaw line. He watched Callie approach with a mixture of hope and fear warring in his faded blue eyes. Slowly, he removed the ice pack, laying it on the table behind him, and dropped his hands to his lap, twisting them together in spastic, anxious movements.

Imhotep sat nearby, where he could still keep an eye on his charge, although he was now focused entirely on the young woman, who had held Eliana's life—and his future—in her hands. Unlike the older man, slouched and hunched over, Imhotep sat ramrod-straight, years of training keeping his face set in lines of stark self-control. Only his eyes, dark and haunted, revealed his inner anguish.

She approached the two, stopping when she reached Bernstein, dropping to her knees near the older man. She knew how deep Imhotep's feelings ran, but John Bernstein was still next-of-kin. Taking his hands in hers, Callie smiled.

"She made it."

Bernstein let out the breath he'd been holding, closing his eyes and offering up a silent prayer of thanks. Giving his hands a squeeze, Callie stood and walked the short distance to Imhotep. She didn't kneel again, but stood looking down at him. Tentatively, not knowing how he'd react to the contact, she reached out her hand, laying it gently on his shoulder. "She made it, Imhotep. She lost a lot of blood, but we were able to transfuse her and repair the damage inside, and if we get her to Khartoum quickly, she's got a very good chance of pulling through."

She had expected some sort of emotional response from him, but the sudden appearance of tears in his eyes caught her unawares. To her surprise, the Egyptian reached up, taking her hand in his, holding it tightly in both of his, hanging onto her as if she were a lifeline. She did kneel down, then, reaching up with her other hand to tentatively touch his face. "Imhotep," she assured him, "she made it. She has a good chance of making a full recovery."

He nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak, not trusting that he could find anything coherent to say. Finally, he closed his eyes, visibly gathering up the reins of his self-control. A shudder racked him, and he looked back at her, the moisture of unshed tears turning his eyes a dark mahogany.

"Thank you." His voice was rough, harsh, the deep baritone a rusty imitation of its usual rich tones. The words seemed to tax him to the point of silence once more, and Callie knelt silently, unwilling to pull away, even though her knees protested and her back screamed. Slowly, Imhotep lifted the hand he still held, turning it over, examining its contours, subjecting it to a slow, methodical scrutiny, as if he could see inside the skin, to the bones and tendons and muscles inside. Finally, with a sigh, he released her. "You have a gift, Doctor," he said, staring into her eyes. "You are a true healer. I—_we_—are in your debt. Thank you." Uncomfortable under his steady regard, Callie stood and took a step backwards, a sound of embarrassment escaping her.

"You're welcome," she stammered, finally tearing her eyes away from him. What _was_ it about the man that made her feel like she'd known him before? _No matter._ Another decision needed to be made, and quickly. Encompassing both of the men with her steady gaze, she began to explain the logistics involved in moving Eliana to Khartoum.

The helicopter was a small one, she explained. They'd be able to fit the pilot, Eliana and one of the doctors—probably her, although Robillard could pull rank at the last moment and decide to accompany Eliana himself. That was doubtful, though, since his real interest lay in documenting the remarkable progress Doug had made in just the last few hours. It would most likely be Callie herself that would fly to Khartoum with Eliana. That left room for one other passenger. She looked between the two men, not wanting to ask the obvious question. Which one of them would go along, and which would be left behind?

Bernstein stared at his hands, still twisted together in his lap, then looked over to where Imhotep sat, his face purposely emotionless, studiedly calm once more. No matter how desperately he wanted to be near Eliana, this man was her father. He, Imhotep, had no claim on her at all except a claim of the heart. He had not asked for her, had not paid the bride-price, had made no arrangements at all to formalize their union. There had been no time. Legally, he had no rights at all, no matter what emotional rights he could claim. Imhotep was a man unused to deferring to others, but in this case, he would. He had grown to respect Bernstein, and he loved his daughter with all his heart. This time, if they were to have a future—if they were to _plan_ a future—it would be done properly or not at all.

Bernstein saw the fact of this in the other man's eyes, but he looked beyond that and saw the desperate need to be with her as well, and with a sigh, he turned back to Callie. "You'll be taking her soon?" At her nod, he turned to the Egyptian. "You go. She'll want you there when she wakes up." Seeing the disbelieving hope in the younger man's eyes, Bernstein made his voice as gruff and hearty as he could manage. "You tell her, when she wakes up, that I love her, and I'll be there as soon as Price can get the chopper turned around and ferry me back to Khartoum."

Imhotep stood, hardly daring to believe that Bernstein would allow him to go, when it meant that he himself would be left behind. It was an act of stunning generosity, and it left him dumbfounded with gratitude. Sinking his knees in front of the older man, the priest looked into the weathered face, the faded blue eyes. "Are you sure this is what you wish?"

"Of course it's not what I wish," laughed Bernstein, although the sound was a sad one. "What I _wish_ is that we had a bigger chopper, or better yet, that Ellie had never been hurt in the first place. But since I can't have what I wish, I'll do what _she_ would want. And Ellie would want you there." He stopped, stared into Imhotep's eyes with a penetrating gaze that saw far, far more than the priest would have allowed, had it been any other man. "I asked you before if Eliana loved you." Imhotep nodded, waiting. "I already knew the answer, Imhotep. It was there in her eyes every time she looked at you, every time she thought of you. She loves you, and she would want you there. Now go—they'll be wanting to leave soon."

Imhotep rose to his feet, glancing first at Callie, who waited for him near the tent's perimeter, then back at Bernstein, who was staring off into the distance, where the chopper waited. "Thank you," he told Bernstein, who merely nodded. "When Eliana awakens, the first thing I will do is relay your message to her."

Bernstein did look up, at that. With just a hint of the man he had once been, just hours before, struggling through to twinkle in his eye, he curved his lips in a wry smile. "The first thing, eh? Are you sure about that, Imhotep?"

Imhotep grinned back at him, for the first time feeling a shaft of true hope enter his heart, chasing some of the shadows away. "Well," he corrected himself, and the hope inside him expanded a bit more, filling more of the empty places inside, "perhaps the second thing."

In a flash of movement, he was gone, following Callie to where the chopper waited. Eliana had already been placed inside, an assortment of monitors and equipment surrounding her, carefully watching and regulating her status. As they drew nearer, the engine's whine increased in frequency and pitch, as Price prepared for their departure.

In the last rays of the setting sun, the helicopter lifted smoothly away from the clearing, banking hard to the right and making a half-circle around the pyramid before curving back towards the north and west, where the first stars of the evening were already visible in the deep indigo sky.

"Take care of my daughter, Egyptian," Bernstein muttered, as the helicopter shrank into a quickly receding spot of dark against the darkening sky. He watched until it was out of sight and listened until the sound of the rotors had faded completely away, before turning back to the others. Akil Hamid was by him almost immediately, putting an arm around his old friend and retrieving the ice pack for him.

"You'll be there soon, John," said his friend, and Bernstein looked up at him with a shaky smile. There was nothing he could think of to say, so he said nothing, his thoughts turning back once more to his daughter. Somewhere along the way, he realized he'd begun thinking that it was just the two of them against the world, a father-daughter team, and now he discovered that he'd need to rethink that philosophy. _How had she grown up so fast? And how had he missed so much of it?_

With a sigh, he sank back down into his chair, wincing as the cold of the ice pack touched the abraded lump on the back of his skull. The pain chased away some of his anxiety, though, and closing his eyes, he settled in to wait.

* * *

_The memories?_ Eliana skimmed through the pages of her life—her youth, her childhood—and found nothing new, no extraordinary revelation. The Voice sensed her confusion. "You must look further—beyond that life, to…before." 

And then she sensed them—foggy, distant, but _there_—hazy images of long ago, existing in her mind like afterimages burned into the retina after a flash of lightning. Real, but not real. There, but there no longer. Seventy years ago—_Meela, filled with rage and desperation, and a cold, shivering panic._ Back generations further—lives she had no name for, the memories of which were cloudier, less distinct. Back through the millennia, back to… _A secret, sacred garden, known to only her and… The priest, turning to greet her, a warm smile stealing over the handsome, bronze face, a face that was too often solemn, too often set in a mask of purposeful arrogance. A warm ripple of deep, rich laughter, a sparkle in the gold-flecked depths of his eyes, and then… Hands reaching out, drawing her close, enfolding her in the sanctuary of his arms._ Imhotep. _Anck-su-namun._

The memory was there, but there was no sense of foreignness to it at all, no sense of it belonging to another. It was hers, part of the fabric of _her_ mind, _her_ soul, so much a part of her that it seemed strange for it not to have been there all along. And with that realization came another as well. For the first time in her life, Eliana felt…whole. There was no sense of fear, no gnawing uncertainty about who she was, or her part in the unfolding tapestry of life. For the first time ever, she felt…_right_, comfortable in her own skin. She could have laughed in jubilation, could have wept with joy, but all that she really desired was to find her way back, to crawl into the sheltering circle of his arms and never leave them again. _How long had it been?_ For a part of her, not so very long at all—for another part, it had been forever.

"I remember," she exclaimed, in awe at the change this benevolent entity had wrought. "I _remember_." One last time, she looked into the light, and felt the love and compassion within its flaming depths. "Thank you."

The Voice pulsed momentarily brighter, then faded back to its usual brilliance. "You are ready, then, to choose your path? Ready to choose the road upon which you will travel?"

She laughed then, a giddy peal of pure joy. "I have been ready to traverse this path for a hundred lifetimes or more." She felt like her heart would grow and grow, keep expanding until it simply floated away, filled to overflowing with her love for the man she had waited centuries to find again.

"I am ready," she repeated, reining in her elation, growing serious once more. "Please," she asked, making one last request of the Voice she had come to know as her god. "Send me back. Send me home."

"It shall be as you desire, child," answered the Voice, and once more, Eliana found herself wrapped up in the cool brilliance of a thousand suns. It surrounded her, protected her, wrapped her within the comfort and safety of its loving embrace, and she felt herself floating, drifting, rising through layer upon layer of luminosity, traveling through the darkness, traversing space and time and ending where she had begun.

She felt the light begin to fade and pull away from her, felt the strange heaviness of her limbs as she sank once more into her mortal form, and then, with a last, wondrous flare of warmth and beauty, the light was gone, winking out and leaving her alone in her body. She felt the light's disappearance, but in a small breath of wind, a voice brushed against her mind in a fleeting farewell.

"Live, child, and love, and rejoice," it said, touching her mind with compassion and love. "This day you have been reborn—complete, and whole, and unblemished as the day of your creation. Laugh, and sing, and feel joy. All will be well." The whisper faded, but the sensation of love and well-being remained, and she drifted off again, into the healing slumber of mortal sleep.

* * *

The light from the small fluorescent lamp suspended on the wall above the narrow hospital bed cast a pall over Eliana, painting her features a sickly greenish shade. She lay still, unresponsive, and although the nurse had explained as best as she could to Imhotep that the drugs they'd administered were supposed to keep her asleep, it still seemed to him that she'd been unconscious for far too long. But her breathing was deep and even, and she didn't seem in any pain, so he quieted his fears as best he could and attempted to trust them. They, after all, knew more about what to expect from her recovery from the surgery she'd had than did he. So the hours passed, and Eliana slept, and Imhotep kept his silent bedside vigil until the nightshift nurse came in during the wee hours of the morning and found him asleep in the hard-backed chair, his head resting on the bed beside Eliana's unmoving hand. 

Gently, she shook him awake, and indicated with a nod of her head the more comfortable chair they'd scavenged from some other room and brought into Eliana's room while he'd slept. It was not a bed, by any means, but it was vastly more comfortable than the wooden chair, and Imhotep gave the nurse a wan smile, and blinked bleary, bloodshot eyes at her when she handed him a blanket as well.

The nurse knew he spoke no Arabic, and she spoke little Hebrew, but she'd asked around, and between her own meager knowledge and that of the other staff on duty that night, they had come up with a rough translation of what she'd heard the doctor saying earlier that evening. Reading from a scrap of wrinkled notebook paper, stumbling over the words, she attempted to pass on at least some information to the poor man.

"Your woman? She is…sleeping. We gave her…pills…to make her…sleep and…recover from the…cutting?" Shaking her head, she grimaced over the poor word choice. "The…procedure? The fixing?" Imhotep nodded. He understood her well enough. She continued, scrunching up her face as her mouth contorted around the unfamiliar Hebrew words. "We must…wait. And pray. She will…wake…when it is right time. Nothing else to do. Wait."

Imhotep nodded again. Always a quick study, and amazingly adept at languages, he called upon the few Arabic words he'd picked up during his time at Bernstein's dig. "Thank you." A wide smile broke over her face, and she let loose with a mind-boggling stream of Arabic that had him blinking in bewilderment. He held up his hands, shaking his head, the confusion on his face combining with the pallor of sleep deprivation to give him a look of helpless exhaustion. She took pity on him, ceasing the baffling stream of vernacular and reaching out to take the blanket from him once more, waiting as he moved the cushioned chair closer to Eliana's bedside, then covering him with the rough, warm wool.

A few minutes later, having checked Eliana's vitals, the nurse left, and Imhotep was alone with Eliana once more. Sighing, telling himself he'd only just close his eyes for a short while, he folded his fingers around the coolness of her hand, and leaned back in the chair, whispering a brief prayer to the gods to guide her spirit safely back to him.

Hours later, he awoke, confused and disoriented, blinking the grittiness of sleep from his eyes and looking dazedly around the room. _Something_ had awakened him, but what? He had nearly managed to chalk it up to the befuddlement of his tired brain, when the sound came again—a low, weary moan. _From Eliana._

He shot upright, abandoning the blanket, the chair, shaking off his fatigue as a rush of adrenaline shot through him. "Eliana?" he whispered, leaning over her still form. "My love? Can you hear me?" Another moan, this one slightly louder, and her head moved, turning to the side, then rolling back again. Her fingers flexed in his grip, and she drew in a small, gasping breath, releasing it again in a sigh. Her eyelids fluttered once, twice, and then cracked open, revealing a sliver of green. "Eliana—wake up. Come back to me, Eliana," he pleaded. "Come back. Please."

Her eyes opened a fraction more, and she gave his hand a weak squeeze. Lips—chapped, cracked, sticky with a pervasive dryness—parted, and he strained to hear the word she tried to articulate.

"Imhotep?" Her voice was dry, scratchy, weak from disuse, and laced with pain. "Is it…over?"

"Yes, my love," he was quick to assure her. "Yes. It is over. You are safe. _We_ are safe. The men—Azziz, Bashir, their henchmen—are either imprisoned or dead. Your father is well. He sends his love and will join you as soon as he is able."

"You?" she rasped, her voice a weak whisper. "You are…here? Safe?"

"Yes," he nodded, an answering murmur. "It is over, Eliana. Completely. The curse is lifted—gone. It will never come between us again."

"Good," she sighed, closing her eyes. "Good." A sigh escaped her lips, and she managed to croak out another word. "Water?"

Scanning the bedside table, Imhotep saw the pitcher, and filled a glass. Gently, carefully, he lifted her head, helping her to take a few feeble swallows. It seemed to help, for when she spoke again, her voice was stronger, clearer.

"What will happen now?" Her eyes, a clear, pure green, searched his face, looking for an answer.

"You will rest and heal. I will be here with you," he replied, lifting one hand to softly stroke her face. "After that—I do not know. We will have to decide what to do then."

She nodded weakly, her eyes falling closed once more. "So…tired."

Imhotep closed his fingers around her hand once more, the other hand still drifting over her cheek in a soothing caress. She turned towards his touch, weak as a kitten, but still wanting the warmth and nearness of him. "Rest, my love," he urged. "Rest and heal. We have time." It was an unbelievable, wondrous statement, but it was the truth. _Thank the gods, it was the truth._ They had time—all the time they would need. "Sleep now. I will be here with you, and you will be safe."

She murmured something unintelligible; then, with great effort, pried her leaden eyes open once more. "Imhotep."

"What, my love?"

She smiled. "Love…you."

He blinked back the tears from his eyes, swallowed the lump in his throat. When he spoke, his voice was rough with barely checked emotion. "I love you, Eliana. More than life itself." Another smile, and she was asleep again, but there was a hint of color in her cheeks now, and her sleep was less a drug-induced stupor and more a restful, healing repose.

He placed a brief kiss on her lips, then sat back down, careful to keep her hand engulfed in the warm protection of his. His happiness lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep, and for the first time in days, Imhotep slept soundly, peacefully, even in the discomfort of the chair's lumpy padding. For the first time in centuries, he fell asleep knowing that he would wake up the next day, and the day after that, with Eliana by his side, and no curse shadowing their lives, no scourge tainting their existence.

Their sleep was restful and tranquil, and in their mutual exhaustion, neither thought to wonder over the fact that their entire exchange had been conducted spontaneously, naturally and instinctively in the Old Tongue.

* * *

Alone in the void, the light pulsed again, then condensed and drew inward, preparing to depart. One last time, it scanned the void, looking for any trace of what had just transpired, casting about for any vestiges of what had come to pass. One last time, it probed the darkness—searching, seeking…and finding. 

A single, solitary soul—a tiny spirit, left behind when the others had joined, overlooked in their renewal, forgotten in their departure. Smaller than the others; different than the others. Different, and yet…a part of them.

"You, too, wish to return?" The Voice knew the spirit, recognized it at once. It too, after all, was a part of Creation.

This soul, though, knew no language, had no vocabulary but the instinctive speech of the heart. _Yes,_ it said. _Yes. Please._

"You have waited long. Eons have passed since the time that was designated for your birth, your lifetime. Do you not wish to go on? Do you not wish to cross to the next world? Be sure of your choice, little one—the mortal world is fleeting, and brief, and all too often filled with heartache and misery. Are you sure?"

_Yes,_ cried the tiny soul. _Please. I want to live; I want to love; I want…_

"Very well," said the Voice, warmth and a fatherly love resonating within its rich timbre. "You shall have this lifetime you so desire. You shall return as well."

_To them?_ asked the soul, longing in its small, childish voice. _They are mine…_

"They are yours. You are a part of them, and they of you," assured the Voice. "Of course you will go to them."

It felt the surge of happiness within the small soul, felt it rush to join the others, and gently reached out, holding it back, comforting it in its disappointment at not being allowed to follow immediately. "But not now. Abide with me a little while longer. I will be with you until the time is right," the Voice assured, wrapping the little being in a comforting blanket of light and love. It felt the tiny soul's disappointment fade, replaced once more with patience and acceptance. Once more, the Voice spoke its wordless, silent promise. "Soon. Soon, little one. Soon you will join them. Soon you shall live again, as well."


	25. Chapter 25

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

_What a long road it seems I've traveled. The beauty and terror of it! The crying of the gods or children, the yellow flowers calm in the last gold light. The names of all the powers seem shouted out by blades of grass, by clouds, by rocks underwater, by the darkness in the mouths of caves, by dead men under the burning sand and in the hearts of mountains. Let me hurry to them then as a man hurries home to rest after a long day in the fields. I've gathered and tied my life to my waist like the pelts of magical animals. Nothing common or rare escapes me. I carry the power within. I've fallen face down upon the earth to gain the power of heaven, powers greater than the ceaseless shining of stars, powers as great as the sun at creation. Having lived the life demanded of me, I shall step into eternity. Long and quietly I spoke with my soul of death, of love, of things that mattered. I am clothed in light, loved and touched by light, bound by light to enter light. On my heart I bear the scars to prove I lived and I live still. And I live forever. I've been shamed and beaten and have cried out for revenge as I gazed on the empty face of sky. I learned the story of my existence as I lived it, as it was spoken from the mouths of gods. I've passed through the terrors of night. Thirsty and tired I fell by the roadside. I've lifted my face to eternity and been blessed by the kiss of morning._

_Now, like a hawk, I rise into the air, into the heart of the universe. I rest on clouds, hearing joyful things—the song of sparrows, the buzzing of bees, the laughter and pleas of courtesans, the wind murmuring in carob trees. I am whirring as a hawk. With the eyes of the hawk I see, think his thoughts and know the joy of his heart. My flesh is vibrant as air, my words sharp and long as a shout._

_Today all the old men in heaven are happy. They are made strong as bulls in green pastures, ready to run, to snort and bellow, ready to make many children. Today is the last day of the world. The sun will not set, the light never wane. We've reached the knot of eternity. A million million years are with us. The breath of life enters. Rivers flow unending. Great is the power of the human heart to love, to change, to make new. The word of light has been spoken and has lived by our hands, in our bodies and in the things we made. Truth shall not pass away. As I turn to dust, I turn to light. I have come home to my father, my brothers, my children, my friends. I have come home to myself. Though my house falls to dust and my fields turn to sand, the light of Egypt lives a million years in me. I shall enter the eye of fire forever. I shall gaze into fire and find the comfort of wife, children, home and cattle. In the dream of an old man, in the eye of eternity, I shall live forever._

_--Excerpt from "Becoming the Hawk Divine", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

Bright morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, gilding the dust motes as they drifted through the still air. By day, the small hospital room showed its age, but it was clean, and bright, and pleasant enough, even with the ever-present institutional scent of bleached linen and disinfectant. But for someone who had lived in the room for two weeks, it was a prison.

Eliana reclined on the narrow bed, picking at the thin blanket with impatient fingers. A thread came loose from the hem, and she worried at it, unraveling the snowy white fabric bit by bit.

"My love." Imhotep reached over, laying a gentle hand on hers, stilling the nervous movement. "They seem to need every blanket they have here. You are destroying one of them." He smiled at her, a gentle reassurance. "Doctor al Faran will be here soon, as will your father." As he spoke, he took her hand in his, gently massaging the tenseness from it, loosening her grip on the ravaged blanket. "You will be leaving here soon, I give you my word."

"I can't wait to get out of here," she snapped, running a hand through the mass of hair that fell about her shoulders in haphazard curls. It was combed, but hastily, and although she rarely bothered with more than the most rudimentary of cosmetics, she felt that she would happily kill for a tube of mascara and a mirror. The standard-issue hospital gown was simply an added insult. But even those things were tolerable, if annoying, as was the bland, poorly cooked institutional food. What Eliana detested about her present accommodations was the complete lack of freedom and privacy—she hated being awakened several times a night when the shift changed and the nurses did their rounds, and she despised the feeling of captivity that she knew was a necessary, but hideously unpleasant, part of hospitalization. "If I have to stay here one more day, I'll go insane."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" said a voice from the open doorway. "I don't know what they have in the way of psychiatric facilities here."

Imhotep and Eliana both turned to face the woman who had entered the room. Callie stood there, a mischievous smile on her face, waving a sheaf of papers in front of her. "Your discharge papers," she said, then teased, "But if you're too busy, I can come back later…"

"No!" shouted Eliana, jerking herself upright. "Bring them here—I'll sign them now, right away!"

Several quick steps brought Callie to the bedside, and she laughed as Eliana plucked the papers from her hand, reaching for a pen that lay on the bedside table. "Read through the discharge instructions, then I need to do a quick exam, and you can sign and be on your way." She glanced briefly towards Imhotep, then turned her attention back to Eliana. "Will Professor Bernstein be picking you up?"

Eliana didn't even glance up from the papers as she finished skimming the second typewritten page. "Yes. He's hired a car and driver."

Callie nodded, and leaned against the small table while Eliana continued reading. Again glancing at Imhotep, she asked, "You're not returning to the site right away, then?"

"What?" Eliana looked up, but her gaze was distracted. The discharge instructions were simple, with little technical language, but they went on interminably—wound care, bathing instructions, symptoms to watch for, when to seek medical attention… Amazing that they hadn't included a map of Khartoum and information on sightseeing opportunities while convalescing. "Oh—no. Dad thought that I should take it easy and relax in style for a week or so." She grinned. "Besides, he's got some business to take care of with the government officials here in Khartoum. He's taking full advantage of the fact that it was Sudanese nationals that almost managed to create an international incident at the site. They're working out details on how the rest of the excavation—if you can call it that anymore, considering the fact that everything in Ahm Shere is aboveground now—will be handled, and giving in to Dad's demands, for the most part. He's loving it, just as you would expect. And they're putting us up at the Grand Holiday Villa for the duration of our stay here," she added, smiling broadly.

Callie's eyes widened appreciatively. "That's a beautiful place. Much nicer to recuperate there than in here, I'd say."

"You'll not get any argument from me on that," agreed Eliana, skimming the last page. Finished, she set the papers to one side and looked up at Callie with a grin. "All done. Examine me, and get me out of here!"

Again, Callie's attention strayed to Imhotep, who had moved to the room's lone window, and was staring expressionlessly out into the street beyond. Was it her imagination, or had his countenance gradually grown more and more bleak during the course of her short conversation with Eliana? Watching him carefully, she noticed the tightness around his mouth, the lines of fatigue and tension around his eyes. No, she wasn't mistaken. There _was_ something troubling him. _But what?_ Eliana was being released; she was completely recovered from the injury she'd sustained in the pyramid. What else could it be? A small frown creased Callie's brow.

"Imhotep?" she asked, not wanting to sound like she was trying to get rid of him, but wanting a few moments to speak with Eliana in private. "Could you step outside for a few moments? I just need to do a quick exam…"

He started, roused from whatever thoughts were occupying him, and turned a blinking gaze towards the women. A look that could have passed for discomposure flickered over his face, and he nodded, heading for the open doorway. "Of course. I apologize." His eyes drifted to Eliana, and he managed a small smile. "I will wait outside."

Eliana returned his smile happily, not seeming to notice anything beneath the surface, and nodded. "Don't go too far—we won't be long."

Another half-smile that just missed his eyes curved his lips briefly. With a quick nod, Imhotep left the room, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Callie made quick work of checking Eliana's vitals—pulse, blood pressure, temperature. Normally, such work was left to the nurses, but in this case, Callie wanted to do it herself. She had a personal involvement in this case that went well beyond even her usual high degree of professionalism. The strange setting and bizarre circumstances of the Ahm Shere dig had formed a strangely intimate link between them all, and Callie needed to see it through to the end. 

After checking the dressing over the nicely healing wound in Eliana's abdomen, Callie straightened, adjusting her stethoscope around her neck once more. "I'd say you're doing much, much better than any of us would have expected, when you were first admitted," she told her patient. "You can go home."

Eliana let out a pent up breath. "Thank god!"

"God surely must have had something to do with it," confirmed Callie, "because no matter how good a doctor I manage to convince myself that I am, it was more than just modern medicine that pulled you through this."

"I know." It was a whispered acknowledgement, the hushed solemnity of the two syllables giving voice to a profound, heartfelt awe. Already the time she had spent between one existence and the next was fading to a dim, shadowed memory, but Eliana would never completely forget the wonder and majesty of the being she'd encountered there, or the profound changes the deity had wrought in her.

Over the days she'd spent in the hospital, she'd tried to explain her experience to Imhotep, and while he'd come close to understanding and appreciating what she'd encountered, she doubted that anyone could truly fathom its significance. Just as she couldn't fully comprehend what Imhotep had gone through in his centuries-long journey and final deliverance, her encounter with the god was a personal, private thing—one that could be described, but never fully understood. She didn't know, in fact, if even _she_ truly understood the depth and significance of the healing of her own soul. She could feel the change in herself, had recalled her past as Anck-su-namun, as Meela; even, perhaps, as other women, in other times—lives with no faces, no names associated with them, and the resultant feeling of wholeness was unique, had been missing from within for her whole life. For the most part, though, she hadn't even known to what depth the sense of loss and deficiency had gone. To completely comprehend what the god had accomplished was beyond her meager mortal capabilities. But her gratitude was in no way diminished by her lack of understanding. What she—what Imhotep—what _they_ had experienced and been given was nothing short of a miracle.

All the fears that she'd had before—that she'd somehow be lost during the joining, that her own essence would be tainted by the stain of sins committed by the others—were gone, replaced by the sure knowledge that she was still Eliana, still the person she'd always been—yet also _more_, somehow. And the worst fear of all, the fear that when Imhotep realized Anck-su-namun had been restored, returned in mind and soul, if not in body, that he would completely forget _her_—Eliana, the woman he'd come to know, the woman he'd held in his arms, the woman he'd grown to love… That fear had nearly vanished as well, swept away by the realization that Anck-su-namun had always been a missing part of her psyche, had always been a part of _her_, and Imhotep had always loved her, loved them _both_, regardless of the name or the face that she wore. He had always, from the very beginning, seen beyond the surface, down to the fabric of her being, and had recognized her for who she was, who she had been, and who they were together. He loved _her_—a name was meaningless currency when judged against the substance of a soul. The fact that although he had rejoiced in her newfound memories, it had changed nothing between them, not even the name by which he called her, proved that he understood this, had always understood it. The only thing that had truly changed between them was _her_ appreciation for all that they'd suffered, all that they'd lost, all that they'd weathered to finally be together. The difference was not in Imhotep at all; it was in _her_.

The minutes passed, each woman lost in her own thoughts, and finally, when the silence between them lengthened from a companionable quiet to an uncomfortably stifling intimacy, Callie coughed softly, breaking the spell.

"Well, then," she said, strangely reticent to meet Eliana's eyes. "I'll leave you alone so you can get dressed and ready to leave." Signing the last of Eliana's discharge papers with a small flourish, Callie headed for the door.

"Wait." The voice was Eliana's, but the compulsion to stop the doctor came from another. Callie turned, a mild curiosity widening her dark brown eyes. Eyes that Eliana—with her newfound memories—recognized on some level.

"What is it?" No sound of perturbation, no trace of anger, or bitterness, or acrimony. Nothing. If Nefertiri—or Evelyn Carnahan—was in there somewhere, she was buried deeply, more deeply, even, than Anck-su-namun had been.

"Just…" Eliana started, only to stutter to a stop. _What could she say?_ I'm sorry? Forgive me? It was all a mistake? I didn't mean to… _To what?_ Kill your father? Kill _you_? Nothing seemed believable; worse yet, nothing seemed _adequate_. There were no good words.

"Just…" she tried again, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "Thank you."

Callie smiled, returning to Eliana's bedside. Reaching out, she took Eliana's hand in hers. Mercifully, she didn't brush off the gratitude with a disavowal of its importance. "You're quite welcome," she told her, with a quiet solemnity and a gentle squeeze of the hand. Brown eyes met green, and a long-sought peace stole over Eliana's heart with her words. Maybe it had taken seventy years, maybe three thousand, but the old enmity between them was gone, and nothing of the hate or bitterness remained. Time was in this case, like in so many others, the great healer.

Callie spoke again, undoing the fragile silence, but the words she spoke were no less healing. "You had too much to live for, and far too much to lose. How could I stand by and watch all that slip away from you?" Her grip tightened on Eliana's hand, and her eyes filled with a sheen of tears. "How could I stand by and watch what losing you was doing to Imhotep?"

The lump returned to Eliana's throat. "Some people could have," she confessed. Inside, her heart twisted painfully. _Some people could even have struck the killing blow and enjoyed watching the pain spread outward like ripples on some evil, stagnant pond._

"I don't know about that," refuted Callie, a staunch optimism firming her voice, squaring her shoulders. "I think most people want to do the right thing, most of the time, if circumstances allow…"

Eliana watched her, recognizing the determined innocence and resolute goodness in the wide set eyes. So hard to believe that those eyes had seen anything but goodness. So hard to comprehend all that had come before. But the past was gone, and nothing could change what had passed in decades and centuries gone by. All that could be done was to face the future with a new understanding, a new appreciation.

"Maybe," was all that she could find to say.

"Have the two of you made plans?" asked Callie, startling Eliana with the directness of her question.

"Plans?" she repeated stupidly, not really sure of what she could say, although she knew full well what Callie meant. _What would they do now? Where to go now that they had successfully thrown off the shackles of the past?_ There had been no time to make plans; there was never any opportune moment to discuss the future. They had simply been content to embrace the present, and the unbelievable good fortune of being together at last. But the future loomed large, a blank canvas waiting to be filled, and they were like children, presented with a rainbow of colors and an empty page, unsure of what hues to use, what patterns to draw.

"I don't know," she answered finally, looking up into the doctor's eyes. Perhaps some of her uncertainty showed, for Callie responded with a reassuring smile.

"He loves you," she told her. "He loves you deeply. Almost losing you very nearly destroyed him—I've never seen such grief." The warmth of her hands seemed to take the sudden chill from Eliana's, and Eliana returned her smile with a wan one of her own.

"Our love for each other isn't the issue—at least now it isn't," Eliana answered, unsure of how to explain what it was, exactly, that _was_ the issue. "It's more that…I don't know…so much has happened, it's hard to figure out exactly where to go from here." She paused, looking into the doctor's eyes to see if she'd understood. "Our situation is…different than most."

Callie bit her lip, not sure of what to say. Perhaps this dilemma, whatever it was, was the reason behind Imhotep's strange despondence before he'd left the room. She'd known that something was bothering him, but…

Nonetheless, she'd seen enough to know that these two would overcome whatever the issues were, no matter how different, or difficult. "Don't be silly," she told Eliana. "You two have something very special between you. You'll figure it out, I'm sure of it."

Eliana dropped her eyes. "You're right," she said, pulling her hand away from the doctor's. "We will."

"You will," repeated Callie, patting Eliana's hand and turning to go. "With a love like that, you have to." Eliana didn't miss the sudden wistfulness in the young doctor's voice, or the hint of sadness that crept into her eyes.

"Callie?" she called out, and the Egyptian woman stopped near the door, looking back with a question in her eyes. Eliana felt compelled, almost, to return something, at least, to this woman, in whatever way she could.

"Have you seen anyone else from the dig lately? The American agent, maybe?" Eliana watched closely, and saw the guarded expression that quickly came over the doctor's face.

"No, I haven't," Callie answered, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. "Why?"

"I was just wondering," said Eliana, a tiny smile lurking on her lips. "If you do see him, give him my best, won't you? He's a good man, and I feel that I owe him my thanks, too."

Callie's face lost the mask of wariness as she nodded in agreement. "He is a good person. If I see him, I'll tell him." The wistfulness was back. "But I doubt that I will."

Eliana's smile broadened. The doctor had yet to learn that in some matters, fate had the final say. "Oh, I don't doubt but that you'll bump into each other somewhere," she told her.

"Maybe," muttered Callie, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and took another step towards the doorway. "Well, you take care of yourself, all right?"

"I'll be fine," Eliana confirmed. "But Callie? If there's one thing that I've learned from all of this, it's that when fate hands you a chance, an opportunity—even a small one—you have to grab it with both hands, and hold tight, because you may not ever get a second chance. And if you feel something for someone, if you _love_ someone, don't ever walk away from that, at least without giving it a chance—there is nothing more important, in this world, or any other." She searched the doctor's face, looking for some sign that the Egyptian woman had gotten the message. The hesitancy was back in Callie's eyes, though, and with a sigh, Eliana finished. "Thanks again, Doc." Callie's eyes widened in surprise at the nickname Eliana had used. But there was no hint of teasing or subtle sarcasm in the American woman's face or eyes. Whatever Eliana had meant, she hadn't meant to mock or ridicule. "Good luck to you, okay?"

All Callie could manage was a hasty nod as she reached for the door handle.

* * *

The hallway was narrow, darker than the rooms it adjoined, and Imhotep paced back and forth, restless and impatient. Eliana would be released—that was a true gift, for he doubted that she could have withstood spending any more time imprisoned here. That she was well enough to go home was another priceless gift. But that she was going home—where ever that was, anymore—created new anxieties. 

_Where was home for Eliana?_ A tent in Ahm Shere, where her father would be spending the next six months, at least? Here in Khartoum, perhaps, where she could work with Akil Hamid in cataloging the treasures they'd unearthed and prepare them for shipment to the museum? In Cairo, at the Museum of Antiquities? She was a linguist, though, not an archaeologist, and that limited her options within a museum setting. Back to across the sea, perhaps, to the United States, to the university where she had a teaching position? Or with him? And where, exactly, would _that_ be?

Never before had Imhotep felt so much an outsider. He was a man with no past, no identity, no place in this world. He was an Egyptian, but that country would not claim him. He had reappeared in Sudan, but that country was no home for him either. He loved a citizen of the United States of America, but would that alone guarantee him a place there? Stopping his restless pacing, Imhotep leaned hard against the railing that ran the length of the corridor on both sides, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white. What was he to do? Above all else, he wanted Eliana—wanted to claim her as his own, take her as his wife, make their union legal and binding in the eyes of both the gods and men. But how could he even ask such a thing, of her or her father, when he had nothing, _was_ nothing? He had no doubt that he could find a place for himself in this new world, given enough time, but they had already waited so long…

Angrily, he shoved himself away from the railing. There were no easy answers to his dilemma, and worrying over it like this was getting him nowhere. He had to do something; but what? Talking to Eliana's father was vitally important. He and Bernstein had to come to some sort of understanding before he could ask her to accept him as a husband. But how could he expect a man to give up his daughter to someone who had no way of providing for her, providing for a family? He would certainly not allow a daughter of his to enter such a union. He had no idea of what he'd need to do to forge an identity for himself; he didn't even know who he could ask for help. Eliana perhaps? But that galled him; she was just recovering from her injury—he didn't want to burden her with his difficulties.

A quiet cough drew his attention away from his inner turmoil and made him wince inside. Who had witnessed his fit of temper? He relaxed a bit when he recognized the dark garb of Ardeth Bay and the casual disarray of Matt Connelly. They had seen him in far worse condition than he was now, and their shared experience in Ahm Shere had formed a bond, of sorts, between the three men that went well beyond the superficial.

Ardeth was the first to speak, tilting his head towards the closed door of Eliana's room. "Eliana is being released today, is she not?"

Imhotep nodded, a look of relief on his face. "She is. Doctor al Faran is with her now, completing the necessary examination and documentation." He noticed Connelly's furtive glance towards the closed door to Eliana's room, smiling inwardly at the discomfort that the younger man just managed to hide. "They should not be long, if you need to speak to the doctor," he added, solely for Connelly's benefit.

Connelly shot him a look. "I'm here to see your girlfriend, actually."

Imhotep raised an eyebrow, and that simple look spoke volumes.

"Relax, man," Connelly laughed, amused by the unspoken protectiveness in Imhotep's expression and stance. "I only need to get a statement from her so I can wrap up my report on the Ahm Shere incident. Nothing else. I thought I'd wait until she was ready to go home, instead of bothering her when she was busy getting better." He quirked his own eyebrow at Imhotep, in a passing imitation of the priest's own expression. "That okay with you?"

Imhotep gave him a shrugging nod. "You will have to wait for the doctor to finish with her."

"Not a problem," said Connelly, casting another furtive glance at the door. "Any idea how long that might take?"

Another shrug was the priest's only reply. A white-garbed nurse came by, pausing to speak to them in Arabic, making a shooing motion with her hands, and pointing down the hallway.

"She says we cannot loiter in the hallway," translated Ardeth for the others, making calming motions with his hands at the agitated woman. He spoke a few words to her, and she nodded, seeming satisfied, and moved off down the hall. "We are to wait in the lounge at the end of the hall."

The lounge, if it could be called that, for it was surely not comfortable enough for anyone to indulge in anything remotely resembling "lounging", was located at the far end of the hall, in a room that had once been used to house patients, but now held an assortment of mismatched chairs, a burnt-out coffee pot, several presumably cheerful-looking photos hung in cheap plastic frames and a tired-looking plant.

"How much time have you spent in this place?" asked Connelly, taking in the shabby forlornness of the tiny room with a single, dubious glance.

"Enough," confessed Imhotep, the single word conveying volumes. Truth be told, he had lost track of how many hours he had passed in that room, waiting for word on Eliana, waiting while doctors examined her, waiting while they ran tests, waiting, waiting, _waiting_…

He was _tired_ of waiting.

"How long will this 'statement' take, Connelly," Imhotep questioned, his impatience flaring anew.

"Not long," said Connelly, leaning back against the doorway. "It's the last piece of my investigation," he added, not taking his eyes off the priest. "Statements, eyewitness accounts, photos…" He grimaced in self-derision at the mention of the photos. "Although I must confess, those are clearly _not_ the work of a prize-winning photojournalist." His glance sharpened again as he looked once more at the Egyptian man. "Background checks," he mentioned conversationally, resuming his list, "of everyone at the site."

Neither man said a word, so Connelly figured he'd just grab the bull by the horns—or the camel by the hump, if that's what it translated to in this part of the world. "Funny," he started, watching them both carefully, "everyone's story and background checked out just fine, even the terrorists. Well, their IDs were fake, of course, but we were able to track down their real identities without too much trouble. Only one person we have absolutely nothing on." He waited, looking between the two men. When neither spoke, he offered, "Anyone wanna guess who?"

Ardeth shrugged. "I assume my identity could have proven difficult to confirm, given the record-keeping practices of my people…"

"Oh, you were an interesting piece of history to trace, Bay," Connelly admitted, "but we did manage to confirm that you were who you said you were. I'll give your "people" points, though, for being one of the most close-mouthed and secretive groups I've ever run across. No, not you, Bay," he said, shaking his head and turning to face Imhotep head-on. "Anyone else wanna take a shot at guessing?"

The priest said nothing. What, after all, was there to say? That any record of his life or death—if indeed those records still existed, and had not been erased when the Med Jai evoked the Hom Dai and wiped him from history—existed over three thousand years in the past? That he had been raised from undeath by Eliana and freed from the most hideous curse known to man by none other than the great god Amun-Re himself? That Connelly _should_ know him, because he himself had encountered Imhotep some seventy years in the past, during one of his _own_ past lives? None of those avenues seemed particularly productive, or especially prudent, so Imhotep stayed silent. Let the man think what he liked.

Ardeth, however, looked beyond the obvious difficulty to the opportunity that lay beneath. "Mr. Connelly, it is perhaps fortuitous that you, of all people, encountered this obvious lack of identification." He watched carefully for Connelly's reaction, but the younger man wore a look of careful neutrality tinged a bit, perhaps, with mild curiosity.

"Why's that, Bay?" he wondered, shoving his hands in his pockets and settling back to enjoy the game.

"Our friend Imhotep, here," Ardeth explained, walking over to the priest and putting a companionable arm around his shoulders, "is an Egyptian. He heralds from a remote, little known village located far from the modern world of the Nile Valley. Their records of births, deaths—virtually everything of importance, was not stored in the modern manner—on computer disk and electronic storage devices. What history was not passed down orally was kept in simple paper form, and when the village was destroyed, a tragic result of the inner bickering brought on by the temptation of modernization and progress, all the records were destroyed." Ardeth shot a surreptitious glance at Connelly, who was watching him with the same sort of rapt fascination one reserves for viewing the freakish, but strangely spellbinding acts in a traveling circus sideshow.

"Keep going, Bay," Connelly prompted, dragging his hands from his pockets and crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I wouldn't interrupt this story for all the camels in Iraq."

Deciding that he had absolutely nothing to lose, Ardeth plunged ahead. "The village was quite primitive, which explains much about the fashion in which Imhotep was trained as a healer. Their ways followed the old ways. You might say," he added, with an inward roll of his eyes, "that they were lost in time, a throwback to the individuals who peopled Egypt in ancient times."

A choking sound from Imhotep drew Connelly's attention to the priest, and Imhotep carefully schooled his features, moving away from Bay and crossing to the far side of the room to gaze out the window. The stoic set of his face revealed nothing of what the priest was thinking, which was just as well. There was no need for Connelly to know that Imhotep had begun to believe that Bay had taken leave of his senses. What sort of dung was the Med Jai attempting to spread here?

Connelly seemed to be having trouble of the same sort. "And about how far back were they thrown, Bay? A couple thousand years? Back to the good old days when a guy could just walk out his front door and pluck a stem of that wonder plant—silphion, right?—from the endless supply of it that grew everywhere? You know, before it became extinct? That far?" His eyebrows rose questioningly. "Or a little farther, even?"

Imhotep turned his back on them completely at that. Connelly, although he seemed harmless enough in this incarnation, was skating dangerously close to the real truth. Imhotep had no idea what Bay was trying to accomplish, but anger began to simmer inside him at the Med Jai's meddling. _What on earth was the man attempting to accomplish? And why was he even trying to accomplish it in the first place?_

"Their ways were ancient," agreed Ardeth, not betraying anything with his expression or tone of voice. "Alas, when the village was destroyed, many of the elders were lost with it, and the remaining villagers scattered to the four corners of the wind. Their entire society is lost now, for all time."

"Yup, there's that _time_ thing again," agreed Connelly, shaking his head in wonder. "And let me guess… Imy here," he gestured towards the priest with his thumb, "is the last remaining member of this ancient, time-locked society."

"You are an astute man, Mr. Connelly," said Ardeth, with a quick bow of his raven-haired head. "It is exactly as you say."

"So it's pretty useless for me to look any further for any kind of documentation that our friend here even exists, is what you're telling me?" Connelly asked him, already knowing the answer.

"That too is an unfortunate truth," agreed Ardeth, feeling rather like a used-car salesman—telling the truth, but only when "truth" was defined in a slightly skewed, distorted way. "But happily," he continued, working his way towards his real goal, "you are in a unique position to help him with this unpropitious tragedy."

"Oh, I can just imagine," drawled the American. "Let me guess—he needs some help with his unfortunate lack of identification, huh?"

Imhotep's ears perked up at this, for at last he began to see where Ardeth Bay was going with this outlandish fiction. He turned to face the two men, watching in quiet amazement as his future—and his past—was redefined between the two of them.

"New documentation would be extremely helpful, in this instance," agreed Ardeth, a look of pleased innocence on his face. It didn't fool Connelly for a minute.

"And why would I do that?" he asked. "The CIA isn't in the business of providing mystery men with new identities."

"Are they not?" inquired Ardeth, his voice bland and neutral. "I was under the impression that that was exactly what they did, in certain circumstances. Is that not what your American Witness Protection Program deals with? Or is it just the FBI that has the power to accomplish such feats?"

Connelly scowled, stinging from the double slap that Ardeth had just delivered. Not only had he stepped neatly into Bay's trap, but Bay had also questioned his abilities as a CIA operative. And that was one thing that Connelly would not stand for. "Of course we do that, Bay—the FBI doesn't have anything on the CIA. But generally, new identities are created to _protect_ someone, not just to give them a new identity for the sheer hell of it—and usually that someone has _earned_ the protection in some way."

The next layer of Ardeth's snare fell into place. "_Earned_ the protection? By risking his own life, perhaps? By walking unarmed into a roomful of terrorists, in a building rigged to explode at any moment, just to help an agent of the American government regain control of a situation that should never have been allowed to progress that far anyway?"

Connelly straightened with a snarl. "Now just a minute, Bay…"

Ardeth took a step forward, holding out his palms in a placating gesture of peace. "I meant no disrespect, Mr. Connelly. I was simply emphasizing the fact that the American government does owe Imhotep, at least to some degree. A simple matter like providing him with documentation and identification seems a fairly reasonable trade, does it not?"

Connelly glanced between the two men, a scowl on his face as he tried to figure out just how he'd managed to be so thoroughly bamboozled by the two of them. Imhotep, of course, was completely, maddeningly expressionless. Bay, on the other hand, was—even more annoyingly—the picture of innocence. Connelly glared at them both again, and then, in a mercurial shift of mood, laughed out loud.

"I give up, Bay," he sighed. "You win. You're right—it's the least we can do. Give the man a new identity—hell, give him his _old_ one. You tell me. What does he need?"

"Identification, primarily, in the form of a birth certificate, proof of citizenship—he _is_ an Egyptian, you have my word on that. If the CIA cannot arrange for such papers, perhaps your good friend, Mr. Hassan, can arrange for some assistance from the Sudanese government. You would think," he speculated, tilting his head to one side, "that they would be most eager to settle things between your two governments and make amends in some way."

"Oh, you'd think so, wouldn't you?" agreed Connelly, beginning to grin. "Yeah, I bet Hassan can help us out a little with this. What else?"

"A passport would be most useful," suggested Ardeth, gathering steam. There was one other thing that could benefit Imhotep immensely, and it would only be a small lie, after all… With a shrug, he decided to go for broke. "And perhaps the most useful of all, you could arrange to have his university diploma replaced."

"College? Where'd he go?" Connelly glanced at Imhotep once more, but the priest was apparently quite content to let Bay speak for him. "What's his degree in?"

Bay thought quickly. "Egyptology, specifically focusing on the New Kingdom time period, with an emphasis on the religious cults of Osiris and Isis, and the healing rituals and practices of the time."

Connelly's head had begun to swim. "This would be an advanced degree, of course…"

"Definitely," agreed Ardeth, nodding emphatically. "A Ph.D. With honors." A small twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. "Believe me—no one living today knows more about this time period than our friend Imhotep."

"I'm not going to argue that, Bay. We're sort of beyond that now, anyway, aren't we?" Connelly conceded. By now, he had dragged out a small notebook and was taking notes. He looked up from his scribbling to ask, "And where'd he learn all this fascinating stuff? The U of Cairo?"

Ardeth responded with the first world-class university that came to mind. "Oxford. Great Britain."

A pause, and Connelly looked up at him for a second, his eyes pinning Bay to the spot. Then, with a shrug, he wrote that down, as well. "Oxford it is." A moment more, and he had tucked the notebook back into his pocket. "Anything else, while we're at it?"

By that time, Ardeth had decided that he had pushed Connelly about as far as he was willing to go. A shake of his head ended the list. "No, that should suffice."

"Gee, ya think?" Connelly glanced at Imhotep again. "Who'da thought that beneath that tough guy exterior lurked such a scholarly sort, huh?" Laughing at the priest's quick frown, Connelly headed for the door. "Give me a couple of days, Bay, and have our friend here hang tight. I'll see what I can do—and I'll see if Hassan can help me pull a few strings. I'll be in touch."

Quietly, Imhotep spoke up from across the room. He had followed enough of the conversation—with its confusing assortment of unfamiliar terms—to realize that what Connelly was doing for him would be beyond repayment. "Thank you."

The words stopped Connelly in his tracks. Looking back, he stared wordlessly at the priest for a long moment, his usual bland expression replaced with one that was strangely intent. _Almost, almost… _A memory tickled his brain, but it was long ago, and far away, and nothing he could do managed to call it up from where it lay, dormant and forgotten. Shrugging, he gave up trying. The man had helped them, after all, and he seemed like a decent enough sort. So he had a shady past. Who didn't have something to hide?

Ardeth seemed to pick up on Connelly's thoughts, for he said quietly, "This is not a mistake you're making, Mr. Connelly. There is nothing to fear from him. I will stake my own life, my own reputation, on that."

Connelly looked at Ardeth, the look on his face almost comical in its amazement. "Oh, that's rich, Bay. One mystery man vouching for another. Priceless." Shaking his head, he once again headed for the door. "Like I said, I'll be in touch." He reached the doorway, hesitating. Finally, he simply couldn't resist the opening Ardeth had provided. Turning back, he wore a look of pure, guileless innocence.

"Oxford in _England_, huh?" He grinned at Imhotep, who returned the gesture with a small smile of his own. Turning the ingenuous grin back towards Ardeth, Connelly remarked, "Pretty good, _for someone who doesn't speak a word of English_."

Too late, Ardeth realized his mistake. Cursing inwardly, he opened his mouth, searching for the words to rectify his error. A complacent gleam in his eye, Connelly waved him off, happy simply to have scored a point, however late, in this little game. "Don't worry about it, Bay—you were right. We _do_ owe him something." With another grin, he turned to Imhotep. "Just a little piece of advice, big guy—better hire a language coach, pronto. But wait—that would be your girlfriend, right?" With a wink, Connelly headed out the door. "Bet _those_ lessons will be fun…"

His laughter echoed down the hallway for several minutes before it faded away into the everyday sounds of the busy hospital. With a small smile, Ardeth turned to face Imhotep.

"Welcome to the twenty-first century, my friend."

* * *

Bernstein saw Matt Connelly in the hallway, nodding to him agreeably as they neared each other. Bernstein liked the young American, even if he had lied about his background when he'd first come to Ahm Shere. He could understand that—Bernstein himself had been known to twist facts and bend the truth when a situation warranted. He had had a slightly harder time forgiving Connelly for not filling him in on the situation before it had reached a head, though—it was because of that that he and Eliana and everyone else had been put in danger. But Eliana was fine now, and the pyramid was intact, and the Sudanese government had never been more agreeable about meeting Bernstein's scientific demands. Things were definitely going in the right direction, and above all else, John Bernstein was a practical man. All things considered, he was willing to let bygones be bygones. 

"Hello, Matt," he called out as their paths crossed, and the young American paused, bobbing his head in a quick nod.

"Hiya, Professor," he said.

"What brings you here?" inquired the older man, noticing Connelly's glance towards the closed door to Eliana's room.

"Well," said Connelly, "I _was_ here to get a statement from your daughter, but I've suddenly gotten a little surprise assignment." He grimaced, remembering the conversation he'd just had. "And it might be a little tricky—embassy stuff, you know?"

Bernstein made a wry face in return. "I feel for you, Matt. There's nothing worse than a bureaucrat who knows you need him. They're like sharks smelling blood."

"You got that right, Professor," the younger man agreed, with a ready laugh. "If it's okay with you, I'll postpone talking to Eliana until after this is taken care of…"

"Not a problem, Matt," agreed Bernstein. "We'll be at the Grand Holiday Villa for at least a week. Come by anytime. I'm sure Ellie would be happy to talk with you there."

"Thanks, sir," Connelly said with a wave, as he headed down the hallway. "I'll talk to you later then, and give Eliana my best. We're all glad that she's come through this as well as she has."

"I'll do that, son."

Bernstein watched as Connelly made his way down the hallway, turning left at the first intersecting hallway and heading for the entrance wing. With a sigh, he turned towards the door to Eliana's room, but stopped when he saw Ardeth Bay and Imhotep coming towards him down the hallway from the lounge. Watching as they approached, he was struck by the notion that all three of these men—Connelly, Ardeth and Imhotep—had wandered uninvited onto his site, and each, in their own way, had managed to change the course of events at Ahm Shere significantly. Not one of them had admitted to knowing the others previously, but it was amazing how they'd all three managed to find each other and form their own odd little group. Quite possibly, it had happened that way because they _were_ all strangers to the dig. It was possible that they had felt like outsiders and misfits, and had banded together out of mutual loneliness. But Bernstein had a gut feeling that wasn't quite the situation, and he'd learned, through his many years in this business, to trust his gut.

"Hello, you two," he said, as they neared. "A good day, eh? Ellie's been waiting for this moment for weeks—almost from the moment she woke up here."

Ardeth smiled and agreed; Imhotep's only response was a slight upward twitch of his lips. It was a wan smile, and it seemed to Bernstein that he should be happier than that on the day Eliana was supposed to come home. Bernstein watched him, wishing not for the first time that Eliana could have chosen someone else—this Egyptian was too enigmatic, too aloof, for Bernstein's tastes.

It wasn't that Bernstein didn't trust him, exactly. Imhotep seemed to be a decent enough person—he pulled his own weight at the site, he was polite, if not friendly, with the other workers, and there was no question about his feelings for Eliana. But there was just too much about him that Bernstein didn't know. And Imhotep wasn't exactly offering up his secrets, whatever they were, willingly. He was a mystery, and unlike an archaeological dig, where a little mystery was a good thing, making everything more interesting and exciting, Bernstein didn't much like mystery in the man his daughter, for better or worse, seemed to have fallen in love with.

But that was Eliana's choice, and he'd have to live with it, he supposed. With a sigh, he faced the Egyptian man. "You've talked to Ellie, I suppose? She's ready to come home? Are the papers signed?"

Imhotep nodded. "They are, and she is quite ready."

"Good, then. I came up to see if she needed anything, and then I'll be heading down to finish up the insurance paperwork and have the car brought around." He headed for the door to her room, but Imhotep stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on his arm.

"If you could give me a moment, Professor Bernstein," the priest requested, his voice low and, for him, uncharacteristically anxious, "I would like to speak with you." He shot Ardeth a look. "Privately."

"What is it?" Bernstein was instantly worried. "Ellie? She's all right, still? Nothing has happened?"

Imhotep was quick to reassure. "No. No—Eliana is fine. I am sorry—I should have been more clear…"

"If it is permissible, I will go and say my goodbyes to Eliana while you two talk." Ardeth had his hand on the door, but waited for both of them to nod before he entered the room. "Enjoy your conversation, gentlemen."

Enjoyment would be hard to come by. Alone now, silence descended between the two of them, thick and uncomfortable. Bernstein looked at Imhotep questioningly, waiting for the other man to speak. Imhotep, his normal poise gone, was edgy and ill at ease, seemingly at a loss for words.

Finally, Bernstein couldn't stand the Egyptian man's discomfort any longer. He spread his hands in a questioning gesture. "Well, Imhotep? Here we are. What is it you wanted to talk about?"

Imhotep opened his mouth, started to say something, then closed it again. With a sigh, he turned away from Bernstein, praying to all the gods he knew that they would help him find the right words. So much depended upon the outcome of this conversation.

Although John Bernstein was a hard man, an impatient man, he was not a cruel one. It was clear that Imhotep was under a great deal of strain, and to a certain extent, his heart went out to the younger man. He knew, after all, how much Imhotep loved his daughter. He had scarcely left her side during the last few weeks. In the first days after her arrival here, Imhotep had been with her nearly every minute of every day. Quietly, he moved behind him, placing a hand on the Egyptian's shoulder.

"It can't be that bad, Imhotep. What is it?"

With a visible effort, Imhotep straightened and squared his shoulders, turning around to look straight into Bernstein's eyes. There was no easy way to do this. The best approach, Imhotep knew, was straightforward directness.

"I would like to ask your daughter to be my wife, Professor."

The sentence, though simple, hit Bernstein like a blow to the stomach. _It had come this far, then?_ He guessed that it should have come as no real surprise—he already knew how much Eliana loved the man. But marriage? She had only known him for a week or so, hadn't she?

"This is a bit sudden, isn't it?" Bernstein choked out. "You two just met not that long ago."

Imhotep could have laughed at that, but held back his mirth. How could he explain in any satisfactory manner that he and Eliana had known each other for centuries; that their souls had endured hell itself to be together? There was no way—not to someone who didn't know the whole of the story. And if Bernstein were ever to know the whole of it, it would be Eliana's decision to tell him. To anyone not already intimately acquainted with the tale, it sounded like the ravings of a madman.

"Our paths have just recently crossed in this lifetime, Professor, but I feel as though I have always known Eliana. And always loved her." _There_. Not quite a lie, but not quite the whole of it, either.

"I know you two have feelings for each other," Bernstein allowed. "But marriage? Isn't it a bit soon?"

Imhotep sighed, and stared down at his hands, clasped loosely in front of him. _Soon? A courtship of three thousand years?_ Still, her father had no way of knowing how very long they'd waited. "No amount of time will change my feelings for your daughter, Professor. I love her. I feel as though I have always loved her. I believe she feels the same." He looked up, meeting the older man's eyes again. "Even so, I will not ask for her hand unless we have your blessing."

Bernstein seemed a bit taken aback by Imhotep's directness, as well as his stubborn adherence to tradition. Since when did this generation bother to so tenaciously seek their parents' approval for their decisions? His estimation of Imhotep climbed a notch.

"Imhotep, if Eliana agrees to marry you, I will not stand in your way," he said, his voice almost gentle. He could see how very much this conversation was costing Imhotep—he knew enough about the man by now to know that he was proud, and confident, and a leader. To submit to the will of another would not come easily to Imhotep, not even in these circumstances. _Especially_ not in these circumstances. "You haven't even _mentioned_ it to her?"

"I have not," said Imhotep. He seemed perplexed as to why this should come as such a surprise to Bernstein. Perhaps this was not the way marriages were arranged any more. Still, it was the only way he knew, and it seemed to him the correct way to go about things. "It would not be fitting, until my family and hers had settled on an appropriate bride-price."

"Bride price?" Bernstein nearly choked. "_Bride_ price? Good lord, Imhotep—what are you talking about? I'm not about to take any money from you for my daughter…"

With a weak smile, Imhotep interrupted the flow of words. "That is perhaps just as well, seeing as I have none. Still, the custom remains. If I had family, which I do not, they would be required to meet with Eliana's family—you—and settle on a bride price. Only then, once the tradition was observed, would it be appropriate for me to ask Eliana to be my wife."

"Good lord," Bernstein repeated, completely flummoxed. "You really do come from a different culture, don't you? Things aren't even done this way in modern-day Egypt anymore."

"The old ways are not necessarily that archaic," the priest countered. "There is much to be said for adhering to tradition and custom."

"I suppose you're right, at that," said Bernstein, lifting a hand to weakly rub at his aching temple. "So. You've just told me that you want to marry my daughter. You've also just told me that you have no family and are basically penniless." Steely blue eyes bored into Imhotep's. "If I'm going to do this the _traditional_ way, I should object to that, shouldn't I?"

_Indeed he should._ Imhotep had always known that this would be the difficult part—convincing Bernstein that he was fit to marry Eliana. It was true he had nothing now, but…

"Yes." _How could he give the man anything less than an honest answer?_ "If Eliana were my daughter, I would hesitate as well. There is no reason—save for the fact that Eliana and I love each other—for you to agree to this union, and almost every reason under the sun for you _not_ to." He made no excuses, told no lies. If Bernstein were to agree to this, he would do so knowing the facts. "I have no family, no home, no past to speak of. Still, I will tell you that should you agree to this marriage, I will spend my lifetime making your daughter happy, providing for her, caring for her, loving her." He hurried on, not wanting Bernstein to interrupt him. "It is true that I have no fortune—none at all. Any wealth that I once had is gone—has been gone for ages. But I am a resourceful man, and I have no doubt that I will find a way to provide for Eliana—to provide for us both. And wealth is not the only currency of value in this life—if love is considered, Eliana will be wealthy beyond measure."

Bernstein said nothing, staring deeply into the dark mystery of the Egyptian man's eyes. That there were secrets there, he was sure. But did that matter so very much, after all? He considered himself to be a fair judge of character, and he was convinced that Imhotep spoke the truth when he said that he loved Eliana with all his heart. And wasn't the younger man absolutely right when he said that love was the most important thing? The rest would come in time, and they were both young, and… And hell, Bernstein himself remembered only too well what it was like to be young, and piss-poor, and wanting only to have a chance…

"I can't ask for much more than that, then, can I?" Bernstein conceded, his expression softening into one of acceptance. "Go ahead, ask her." He very nearly broke into a grin at the disbelieving expression that crossed Imhotep's face. Then, a moment later, he _did_ grin. "You have my blessing, Imhotep. Ask away." He clapped a welcoming hand on the priest's shoulder. "I'm pretty sure what you'll get for an answer. Welcome to the family."

Disbelief warred with relief on Imhotep's face, then abruptly lost the battle. His mouth curved into the first genuine smile he'd worn since the conversation had begun. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Imhotep. Just make my daughter happy."

"It will be my life's work, Professor."

Bernstein laughed. "Keeping their wives happy takes up the greater part of most men's time, son—don't you know that?" Seeing the confused look that crossed the other man's lean features, Bernstein's laugh trailed off. "Maybe you don't. Well, you seem pretty smart—you'll pick it up pretty fast, I'd imagine."

"Professor Bernstein, I promise you—Eliana will be happy."

"I believe you, son." Bernstein considered for a moment, weighing his option, choosing his words carefully. "Have you thought about what you'll do in the meantime? Before you get your feet on the ground, I mean?"

Before he could do anything, Imhotep needed the documentation that Connelly was providing. Without it, he was beginning to understand that he would have a difficult time doing anything. With it, doors would begin to crack open. But for now? Imhotep shook his head. "I had not thought of anything past seeing Eliana fully recovered."

"I thought as much," confirmed the older man. "Look—if you'd like to stay, and help out with the dig, you're welcome to. Ellie and I will be staying in Khartoum for a week or so, but then we'll both be going back to Ahm Shere. I know that working a dig isn't the most glamorous occupation in the world, but it'll give you a place to live and an honest wage until you figure out what it is you want…"

"You would do this?" Imhotep asked.

"Look here, son." Bernstein's voice was gruff, but underlying its stern tone was a measure of respect and growing affection for this man who loved his daughter. "I don't know where, exactly, you come from. Hell," he stopped, as if realizing for the first time how little he actually did know about the Egyptian man, "I don't even know your last name…"

"Last name?" Imhotep seemed perplexed, and Bernstein realized that the man had no idea what he meant.

"Surname? Family name? You know—I'm John _Bernstein_? Matt _Connelly_? Ardeth _Bay_?" He watched as realization stole over Imhotep's features.

"I am afraid that this is another cultural difference between our two worlds," said the priest, not in apology, but by way of explanation. "I am Imhotep. That is all. If there was ever another name by which I was known, I cannot remember, and do not know."

Bernstein waved his hand at him, not even wanting to get into this latest revelation. Sometime he and his son-in-law-to-be were going to have to sit down and have a long talk about this remote tribal culture he sprang from. _No last name?_ But for now… "Imhotep's a fine name, son. Don't worry about it. As I was saying—I don't know where you come from, but I'm an American. There, we judge a man by his actions, by his character, not by his pedigree. Well, at least we _say_ we do. You are what you make of yourself—and that depends on how smart you are, how capable, how ambitious, how hard-working." He measured Imhotep in a glance. "I don't see you lacking in any of those qualities. You'll do fine. And if working at the dig for a while helps you out, I'm happy to have you there. Besides—Eliana tells me that you know quite a bit about the Scorpion King legends. You never know where that information will come in handy." He patted Imhotep's upper arm once more, giving him a quick smile of reassurance. "Things will work out."

Imhotep stared at Eliana's father, unable to believe the other man's generosity, his willingness to help a virtual stranger. That he would be this gracious, under the circumstances, astonished the priest—astonished him and humbled him. He had never dared hope, not in all the long years that he'd been imprisoned by the Hom Dai, cursed and reviled by all, that fate could so thoroughly restore what he'd lost—his name, his honor, his love, his family. John Bernstein was a man he found himself respecting—and with the respect came a curious affection. Imhotep himself, though he'd lived as a man for slightly less than two score years, was ancient, if one counted the years spent victim to the curse. Yet he found himself beginning to think of Eliana's father as his own—or at the very least, as someone he could respect and grow to care for in that way. What a long road he'd traveled, just to find himself starting over once more…

And what a blessing it was to be able to do so.

"Thank you." _How many times had he said that already this day? How many more times would he find himself saying it in the days to come?_ Again, Imhotep felt humbled by the surprising goodness of the people around him. Little by little, the hard shell of cynicism that had surrounded him was falling away, as he slowly rejoined the world that had reviled and rejected him—the same world that he had reviled and rejected, the same world that he had railed at and cursed during the long years of his torment. But today he found himself in a new world—a new time, a new place, a new beginning. Step by step, Imhotep worked his way back into the fragile but indomitable circle of humanity's embrace, and realized just how much he had mourned its loss. Finally, after a journey of thirty-three centuries, he had come full circle, back to familiar shores, back to life, back to humanity.

Finally, he had come home.

* * *

The door opened quietly, only the whispering hiss of its hinges betraying the intruder. Eliana looked up from where she lay on the bed, fully dressed now, but resting, waiting to go, and expecting to see Callie, or Imhotep, or her father, but not the Med Jai. And certainly not the Med Jai alone. She had not seen him since the last day in the pyramid, since their last conversation, not since… Not since she had remembered, not since her experience with the god, not since… Not since she had become the woman he despised above all others. 

"Ardeth." Her throat closed over the syllables of his name, and irrational fear, based on her newly recovered memories of Anck-su-namun's life drained the warmth from her skin and the color from her face.

He saw the change in her demeanor towards him immediately. Whereas before, Eliana had been open, gracious, for the most part accepting him willingly as a companion and a friend, this new woman was withdrawn, nervous—even afraid. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice, sense it in the wary way she regarded him—a hunted animal watching the predator as it closed for the kill. He knew, as well, the reason for her fear. In the days since her accident, he had spoken with Imhotep at length about all that had occurred, all that had transpired, and he well knew that Eliana carried Anck-su-namun within her once more—Anck-su-namun and Meela and all the rest. He knew that she remembered those lives, remembered her past, remembered the role that he and his ancestors had played in the tragic, centuries-long saga. He knew that whereas before, she had rejected Anck-su-namun, rejected Meela, had once even rejected the notion of past lives, she acknowledged them now—if not with eagerness, then at least with acceptance. He knew, and he didn't care. Just as the not-long-past chain of events had forged an unlikely, but nonetheless unshakeable bond between the two men—the Creature and the Med Jai, the executioner and the condemned—the allegiance he felt towards the woman who was before him now was just as unwavering. It didn't matter who she was, who she would be, or who she had been. She was Eliana, and Eliana had once been—and would always remain—his friend.

He simply needed to convince _her_ of that.

After what seemed like hours, but had surely been just a moment or two, he nodded, acknowledging her. "Eliana." He moved forward a pace or two, his hands at his sides, attempting to appear as non-threatening as possible. He could see the tension in her hands as she gripped the threadbare blanket that lay beside her, the knuckles white and the fingers clenched into fists around handfuls of fabric. A sigh escaped him, and he stopped where he stood, watching her with a hint of sadness seeping into his eyes. "You are well?"

She nodded, silent, watching as he pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat beside her. He leaned back, saying nothing, simply watching her with a gentle, steady regard that he hoped was reassuring. The wariness was still in her eyes, though, and the tension was still a palpable, living thing, evident in the stiffness of her posture, the tightness of her mouth, the way she clenched and unclenched her hands. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he just sat there, hoping that some benevolent deity would place the right words in his mouth, conjure up for him a way to correct this unease between them. But no kindhearted being interceded, and silence filled the room, thick with the encumbrance of the past, heavy with the weight of words unspoken.

Eliana glanced at Ardeth, then dropped her eyes and began picking nervously at the blanket once more. The Med Jai watched her for a time, then sighed again, and with a gesture curiously reminiscent of Imhotep's, reached out and stilled her hand. Her eyes jumped to his at the contact, and they bore the look of a rabbit just caught in a hunter's snare.

"Eliana," he said, the musical cadence of his softly accented voice bringing with it the sound of the desert, the feel of the sunlit sands of Egypt. "There is no need to be fearful or ill at ease. No matter the rest, no matter that you have recovered your memories, remembered your life as Anck-su-namun. The past is history, dead and buried, and shall remain so. The curse is finished, entombed under the dust of centuries. You have nothing more to fear from the past—or from the Med Jai."

"So you say, Ardeth," she hedged, but he could see the doubt in the clear green of her eyes. She had not pulled her hand from his, though, and he took that as a hopeful sign. Perhaps the Eliana who had once called him friend was still there, somewhere, and she—if not the others—could be convinced to forgive him for the part he had played in her misery, hers and Imhotep's, and call him friend once more.

He watched as some of the fear faded from her eyes, replaced in part by simple distrust. She continued, her voice growing stronger, the distrust seeming to transform to anger as she spoke. "So you say. But you are only _one_ of the Med Jai. Can you speak for them all? Perhaps I have no need to fear _you_, but do I—do we—truly have nothing to fear from _them_?"

"You do not." The answer was swift, certain, and carried not just a trace of obdurate honor, and a hint of wounded pride. Above all, Ardeth was a Med Jai, and the Med Jai, if not infallible, were a people of unyielding principle. "I am a leader among my people, Eliana. If I tell them that the Creature is no more—as he surely is not—then my word will not be questioned. Only a few among us—the tribal leaders, the elders—will know the truth, the whole of the story. They will hear it from me, and they will believe."

"You sound very certain of that, Ardeth," she allowed, but still the hesitation was there.

"As should you be, Eliana," he reinforced. "You are my friend." The statement was unequivocal, a plain fact. "Though it sounds unbelievable to my own ears, Imhotep himself has become my friend. He is not the Creature of legend that the curse once made him. He is a man—no more, no less—and has proven himself to be a man of honor. A man," he added, "who I would be proud to call brother."

Her eyebrows twitched upwards in disbelief, prompting Ardeth to add another irrefutable fact to his argument. "Besides that, Eliana, he has received absolution from Amun-Re himself. And who are the Med Jai," he asked, a self-mocking grimace curving his lips downward, "to question the will of a god?"

"You really think you can convince them to leave us in peace?" she questioned, still not daring to believe that the dream was within their grasp. But even so, her tone had softened considerably, and Ardeth could see bits and pieces of the woman she had been seeping through, warming the chilly atmosphere of the room. Warming him.

"They will believe," he promised, "and will act according to those beliefs." He saw the hope begin to shine in her eyes, and pressed his advantage. "You will be safe, Eliana." The words were spoken softly, a caring reassurance, reinforced by the gentle squeeze he gave her hand. "You will both be safe. On this, you have my word."

She did not question him further, and silence descended once more. Aware that there was still a residual awkwardness between them, Ardeth steered the conversation to safer, more neutral territory. "You are feeling well?" he asked. "Strong enough to leave? You seem eager to be released from here."

"You can't imagine how relieved," she laughed, and with the soft, breathy sound, more of the old Eliana returned, the small smile that remained on her lips making her look more like the woman he'd first met, all those weeks ago. So much had happened since then—the time could be measured easily in days, but seemed more like lifetimes. In some ways, he supposed, it was lifetimes.

"And you are fully recovered?" he pressed, still somewhat worried for her. True, she'd been hospitalized for weeks, and all the doctors, including Callie, who'd been inexplicably more protective of Eliana than any of the rest, had felt she was ready to be discharged, but her injuries had been so severe… "We thought we'd lost you, you know."

She looked at him, then, really looked at him, and he felt the last of the barriers between them fall away, and Eliana emerged completely, fully, at last. The rest were still there, he knew, and would remain so, but _she_ was there with him once more. _Eliana_. His friend. A small twinge of…something…twisted his heart, and he resolutely stilled it. There was no place for that. Not anymore.

"I thought I'd lost me, too." It was a softly worded statement, a short phrase that alluded to much, much more. She was referring to more than just the possibility of losing her life, Ardeth knew. From what Imhotep had told him, Eliana's journey, in the time after her injury, had been a long one—long and confusing and heart-wrenching. She had been forced to confront what she most feared, most despised, and embrace it; accept it as part of herself. She very nearly _had_ lost herself. But she had endured, and triumphed, and emerged stronger from the journey. She was whole now, complete in a way that she had never been before. Imhotep had tried to explain it, and Ardeth had thought that he understood. But in the end, how could anyone but the person so transformed ever hope to truly understand the transformation?

She smiled, and a small, tentative flicker of humor brought the emerald fire sparkling back to life in her eyes. "I'm fine, Ardeth," she assured him, one hand instinctively going to her upper abdomen, pressing gingerly against the one remaining bandage, hidden beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. "I'm going to have a pretty nasty scar to show for it, but I'm fine."

His eyes followed the movement of her hand, knowing that the physical scar she bore from this would not be the only lasting memory she'd have of Ahm Shere. Everyone, it seemed, had collected a scar or two on this odyssey. And some scars had been healed, as well. In the end, he supposed, it balanced, somehow.

"We all have scars, Eliana," he said, his voice deep and quiet, his dark brown eyes reflecting a calm wisdom far older than his years. "Some are on the outside, visible to the world; others are hidden deep within, unknown to any save ourselves. Do not be ashamed of your scars, Eliana. They are a badge—a testament to the fact that you have lived, and live still—a record of where you have been, a proof of where you are now, and a reminder of where you still must go."

She stared at him, deep into his eyes, so deep that he felt she must surely see into his soul, see his own scars, external and internal. Her regard was steady, solemn, endless; laced through with the knowledge of not just one lifetime, but many.

"And you, Ardeth?" she asked, finally breaking the silence. "What do your scars remind you of?"

He felt a tiny stab of pain at her words, a shadowy twinge of soreness from a nearly healed wound that every once in a while still troubled him. The ache was fading, though, the wound steadily mending itself, growing less and less troublesome each time he saw Imhotep and Eliana together. As they should be, he added. The haunting question of what could have been was gradually giving way to a surety that indeed, fate's tapestry was a plan crafted by divine hands, not mortal ones. What should be; would be. A tiny part of him, though, would always feel something special, something extraordinary, for this woman.

"They remind me," he finally answered her, "that life is a beautiful, mysterious, and utterly precious gift, and should be lived to the fullest and treasured with every breath, every heartbeat. Life, love, friendship… What greater gifts than these can any man hope to receive?"

A single tear formed in her eyes at his words, welling up and making the green shine like a living gemstone. "Those are beautiful words, Ardeth." She wiped at her eyes with a corner of the blanket, then reached out herself and enfolded his hand in both of hers. "I'm sorry for doubting you—for doubting your word. I should have known better. I should have trusted you, trusted your honor, your decency. You are a remarkable, beautiful person, and you will always be my friend—trusted and treasured beyond words."

Words failed him in the swell of emotion her words wrought, and he could only incline his head in a brief bow, accepting the priceless gift of her friendship and trust. It was all the more precious for the fact that it was undeserved, all the more treasured for its being given freely, without reserve. No words he could find, or speak, would do it justice.

For a time, then, neither of them spoke; everything seemed already to have been said—additional words would only be redundant.

* * *

Connelly muttered to himself as he waited for the elevator to arrive, thinking about the hoops he'd have to jump through to try to arrange for the paperwork and documentation he'd all but promised to procure for Imhotep. _Oxford_, he snorted to himself. _Yeah right._ _And I graduated from MIT with a degree in nuclear engineering, too. Bullshit._ But still, the guy did know his ancient history, and all that healing stuff did sound right, even though he seemed to have missed the extinction of one of his favorite herbs. And really, if they guy wanted paperwork to prove that he was some sort of academic egghead, what was it to Connelly? After all, it wasn't like he was asking for state secrets, or something. _What the hell,_ he thought. _Oxford it is._

Someone struck him from behind. Or rather, someone _ran into him_ from behind. He heard the sound of files hitting the ground and papers erupting from them. In slow motion, he turned, knowing who he'd find there before his eyes confirmed it. _Callie_.

"Hey, I was just coming to look for you," he informed her, his eyes sparkling with amusement to see her so flustered. "But thanks for bumping into me—you saved me the time to hunt you down."

"Mr. Connelly…" she started, red-faced with embarrassment as she bent to pick up the maelstrom of flying paperwork. Quickly, Matt bent to help her.

"It's Matt, remember?" he corrected, his large hands straightening and organizing handfuls of the hopelessly mixed up forms and memos and charts. "It hasn't been that long, Doc. Or is being in civilization again making you go all formal on me?"

"Matt," she stuttered. "I'm really not this clumsy." She glared at his politely sarcastic smile, the disbelief manifest in his slightly raised eyebrow. "_Really_. I'm not. I don't know why it is, but you seem to bring it out in me for some reason."

"Yeah, you could be right, Doc." He capitulated, looking properly put in his place. Only the remaining twinkle in his eye gave his true feelings away. His next words exposed them utterly. "I just have that affect on women. They all tell me that." He laughed at her annoyance, quickly helping her to retrieve the rest of the mess littering the hallway, then taking her arm and pulling her to her feet. "Seriously, Doc. I _was_ coming to look for you."

The annoyance faded from her face, but the bright flush remained. Connelly took that as a good sign. He liked keeping her guessing, enjoyed keeping her slightly off balance. It boded well for his future plans. If he could figure out what, exactly, those future plans for her—for them—_were_, he thought wryly, that would be a bonus. All he knew was that he couldn't just walk away from her—there was something special, something unique, growing between them. It had been there right from the start, and it had only grown stronger during the time he'd spent at Ahm Shere. He could feel it, he'd swear that she could, too, and he'd be a fool to leave without at least exploring the possibilities.

"You were?" Callie seldom wore glasses, not needing them for anything but lengthy reading, but that what she'd been doing since leaving Eliana, and with a quick shove, she pushed them up more firmly. They gave her an air of bookish academia, sitting between her eyes and the rest of the world like a transparent shield, and Connelly decided he liked the challenge that presented. "Why?" She sounded genuinely astonished, and Connelly wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Surprises were great, and all, but he didn't think he was too pleased by the idea that she found it so amazing that he'd actually go out of his way to look for her.

"Just to make you blush like this, Doc," he teased her, but when the flush turned from embarrassment to anger, he sobered immediately, reaching out and holding her back when she would have twisted away. "I'm sorry, Callie. I'm a jerk, okay? I came to see you because…"

She refused to make this easy for him, and stood there, her lips compressed in annoyance. She barely managed to keep from tapping her foot in impatience. Really—she had better things to do than stand around in this hallway, listening to Matt Connelly and his never-ending stream of wise cracking. She did. Truly. When she realized that she was trying to sell herself on the idea, she stopped the mental conversation, skewering him with a glare. "Because why, Mr. Connelly?"

"Matt, please, okay?" He pleaded, looking like he might fling himself to his knees at any moment, and beg her to call him by his given name. He reached out, taking her hand in his, holding it lightly, so that she could pull it away at any time, if she wanted. She didn't. For some reason, she liked the feel of his fingers wrapped around hers, all big and warm and sturdy. She shivered, and he was instantly solicitous. "You cold, Doc?"

With a shake of her head, she dismissed his concern, and pulled her hand away at the same time. "No. I'm fine. But _Matt_," she said, emphasizing the name, "what did you want to see me for?"

"I…" he began, but stopped, realizing all of a sudden that he wasn't exactly _sure_ why he'd been so intent upon finding her. It was just that he couldn't seem to walk away without seeing her one more time, and there was no way in hell he could explain _that_ without sounding like a third-rate romance novel. He settled for something just short of it. "Didn't want to be rude, you know. I was here; I figured you were, too, and since we sorta got to be friends out in the jungle and all…" He gulped, wondering if he could possibly manage to babble on any longer. "Well, I just came by to say hello, I guess, since I was here seeing getting a statement from Eliana…"

"I see," Callie said in reply, and the hint of disappointment in her voice caught his attention. Her next words, though, shot him down abruptly. "Well, hello, then…and goodbye. I've got charts to do." She spun on her heel, heading for the hallway.

He was after her in seconds, following at her heels like a stray dog begging for a handout. "Okay, Doc, I give up." Outpacing her, he spun around in front of her, blocking her path with his bulk. She stopped with a glare, holding the papers to her chest like a shield. He held out both hands, palms up, in a gesture of silent entreaty.

"Oh, grow up, Matt," she snapped, pushing the glasses up on her nose once more. "If you have something to say, just say it."

He opened his mouth, closing it with a snap when he realized he had no clue what to say to her. When it fell open again, she responded with a tart, "Is this your fish imitation, or do you truly have something to say to me?"

"Geezus, Callie—give a guy a break, will ya?" He ran his hand through his hair, rumpling it into further disarray. "Okay—I wanted to find you, because…because I just wanted to see you again, okay?"

For the first time, a genuine smile started to bloom on her lips, but she held it back with deliberate sternness. "Why?"

"Why?" he parroted, wondering if at any moment his brain would begin to dribble out his ears, considering it had apparently turned into mush. "Well…"

Her foot tapped out a staccato rhythm on the floor, as she enjoyed his discomfort.

"Because…" he swallowed hard, trying to decide between humor and truth. For once, truth came out on top. "Because it feels like we have unfinished business between us, that's why, Doc." His expression completely serious now, he took her hand in his again. To hell with it. If he ended up sounding like bad pulp fiction, screw it. That's what he'd sound like. "Because when I'm with you, I start to think that there's more to life than chasing bad guys around the globe and cracking stupid jokes just to keep myself sane. Because you make me feel like I'm twelve years old with my first crush on a girl way too pretty and way too smart to ever look twice at a wise-ass guy like me. Because maybe I want to see if that feeling goes away, or if there's a way to make it last."

By the time he was finished, her already dark skin had flushed to an even duskier shade, and her eyes were wide open, misted over, and gleaming with some emotion halfway between happy bewilderment and sheer terror. Mouth working, she began to stutter out a reply, but to her amazement, and his own, Connelly stopped the words with a quick kiss. It wasn't much more than a peck on the lips, but the tingling aftershock as their mouths parted stayed with them both. That innocent kiss held a promise of much more, and they both knew it. It was only a question of what either of them would let it become. And Matt knew what he wanted it to turn into. He had thrown the ball squarely into her court. It was up to her, now, whether or not she'd stay in the game. He hoped like hell that she would.

"Matt," she began, then stopped, searching his eyes with something akin to desperation. "I don't know what to say to that…"

"Don't think about it too much, Doc," he suggested. "Just say the first thing that comes to your mind, okay?" He tried to ignore the fact that he sounded like he was pleading with her. "Are you glad to see me again?"

Her blush deepened, and she dropped her eyes from his. An experimental tug told her that he held her hand more tightly than before, and for now, she let it stay where it was. She didn't really want to break the contact, anyway. "Yes. Yes, I guess I am glad to see you." His quick grin of triumph was quickly dashed by her next words. "I must be a glutton for punishment."

At the crestfallen look on his face, she repented quickly. "Matt, I'm just kidding. Really. I am glad to see you." He had put himself on the line, she realized. Maybe she needed to join him there, at least a little bit. "I missed you, actually."

Again, he remained serious. "I missed you, too, Doc." Without realizing it, his thumb had begun to rub little circles over the back of her hand, feather light, teasing, making her heart race and sending her pulse skyrocketing. "So…will you have dinner with me some night? Since we're both in Khartoum for a while?"

Her face abruptly fell. "Oh," she said, her voice flat, dejected. "Oh. Matt, I'm sorry. I'm not going to be in Khartoum for long. I'll be leaving in two days."

"Well, how about tonight then—I'll buy you dinner, and we can maybe get together again when you're back. I'll be here for a week or so, yet…"

She shook her head, pulling her hand away from his with a quick jerk. "No, Matt—you misunderstood me. I'm not coming back. I've taken a new job—with Robillard and his team, actually. Studying the virus, and the antibodies in the serum. It's incredibly exciting work—cutting edge stuff, the likes of which no one's seen before. If we found a cure for this virus, maybe we can get close to curing its offspring, you know?" Her voice trailed off, as she realized that her excitement over the medical breakthrough didn't really matter right now. It was thrilling stuff, but… The excitement drained out of her voice, leaving it flat and brittle. "The job is in Geneva, Matt. I'll be relocating there before the end of this week. With Doug fully recovered, and Eliana discharged, it seemed like there was no reason for me to stay here…"

His heart felt like it had turned to lead. "Oh." He dropped her hand, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, half turning away from her. "Well, congratulations, then, I guess, and good luck." A small smile hid his shock at the news. "Robillard, huh? You really _are_ a glutton for punishment."

Callie watched as he valiantly made an attempt to cover his disappointment, and found herself fighting off the urge to throw herself into his arms and beg him to kiss her until she had forgotten all about viruses and serum and research and… And she had little doubt that he'd be more than capable of accomplishing that goal. Tentatively, she reached out a hand, touching his arm and staring up at him. "We could still have dinner tonight, Matt. That is, if you still want to…"

His eyes shot to hers. Was is just his imagination, or did she sound as though she was just as disappointed as he that they'd have so little time to really get to know each other? Gazing deep into the dark, rich brown of her eyes, he realized that there were some moments in life when you just had to say "What the hell," and do what felt right at the time. In his next thought, he found himself calculating just how many vacation days he had coming to him, and just exactly how much time it might take him to convince her that Geneva, Switzerland was the one place in the world he'd been waiting his whole life to see. He'd give himself a fair shot at the last bit—he could be a pretty convincing guy, when he wanted to be, and when the situation warranted. And as for the time off—hell, he never _took_ any time off—he'd probably be able to play American Tourist in Switzerland for a month, maybe more. And his boss back at headquarters had better not give him any grief about it—he'd worked his ass off for them for years. The time was his, and he had it coming. And there were still a couple of days to spend in Khartoum. He could clear up Imhotep's documentation in that amount of time—especially with Hassan helping him. It could be done; and by god, he was going to do it.

Suddenly, things didn't look so bad after all.

Callie saw the smile begin to grow on his face, saw the mischievous twinkle start to crawl back into his eyes, and she tipped her head to one side, giving him a puzzled smile of her own. "You like that idea, then? Dinner tonight?"

With a wicked grin, he leaned closer, one finger reaching out to straighten her slipping spectacles once more. "It's a great idea, Doc. Truly inspired. We'll go out, have dinner, make a toast to the future."

Her eyes brightened. "A celebration, then?"

"You got it, sweetheart. A real celebration. You've got this new job, I'm wrapping this one up, and who knows what the future holds? We may as well ring it in together." As he spoke, he tucked her hand into the curve of his arm, and turned her so that they were walking together down the hallway. "That work for you?"

"I'd like that, Matt," she said, looking up into the sparkling blue of his eyes and wondering why she had ever thought he was rude, or annoying, or… Giving herself a mental shake, she stopped her woolgathering. "I'd like it a lot. To the future?"

"To the future, Doc, to a _great_ future." Ahead, the bright morning sunlight shone through the hospital's wide entranceway. Matt signaled to the doors with a nod of his head. "It's a nice day out there right now, even. I know a little place down the street—it's a used bookstore, mostly, but there's a little café out back, and they serve a mean espresso. You got time for a quick break?"

She _didn't_, really—she had mountains of paperwork to complete before her shift ended, and she had errands to run, and a staff meeting at the clinic, and… She looked out the plate glass doors, to the street outside, where people bustled, and cars passed, and the bright daylight beckoned. Another glance, this time to the stack of papers clutched in her arms. And finally, she looked up into Connelly's face again, and something in his eyes stopped her cold. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but the niggling sensation of déjà vu remained. It felt almost like she had been here before, or been somewhere, or… But regardless of the place, it had been this man who was with her, and there was nowhere else in the world she'd rather be. For a moment, Eliana's words came back to her…_when fate hands you a chance, an opportunity—even a small one—you have to grab it with both hands, and hold tight, because you may not ever get a second chance…_

Tugging him over to the nearby information desk, Callie deposited the small bushel of papers on the already cluttered credenza. "Keep these for me, will you?" she asked the started receptionist. Not waiting for the woman's reply, she turned back to Matt.

"Coffee sounds wonderful, Matt. Let's start that celebration a little early. What harm ever came from playing a little hooky, anyway?" Grinning at his look of surprise, she gave his arm a tiny squeeze and pointed him towards the door. "The paperwork will wait. Life won't. Lead the way, Mr. Connelly."

"Now you're talking, Doc," he crowed, heading for the doors, and the sunlight, and the future. "Now you're talking."

* * *

"Come on in, join the party." Eliana's voice called to them through the doorway, in response to her father's soft knock. Seeing him, she grinned and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. "You took your time getting up here, didn't you? Get me out of this place, Dad!" 

"Glad to see you looking so well, honey," Bernstein told her, crossing to the bed and giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "You'll look even better once we get you out of here and to somewhere more comfortable."

"That's what I keep telling everyone," she agreed, "but no one seems to be in any particular hurry to do anything about it."

"You know how these places are with their paperwork," sighed Bernstein, holding his hands out in a gesture of entreaty. "It's like signing your life away…"

"Don't worry about it, Dad." She waved off his excuse. "I just want to go, now, okay?"

"We're all set," Bernstein promised her, with a quick nod. "I'm going to head down and have the car brought around. Imhotep can help get you downstairs and to the front entrance, all right?" He didn't expect any objections, but… Her wide grin was answer enough. "You two take your time, all right? No rushing around, reopening wounds or anything. Abdul drives slow enough anyway—you'll probably beat us down there as it is."

"I must be going, too," Ardeth stated, rising from the chair in which he had been seated. He exchanged a glance with Imhotep, and a brief nod of understanding passed between them. He turned to Bernstein. "Professor Bernstein, I am sorry to say that I will not be returning to Ahm Shere. Duty calls, and I must return to my family in the north."

The archaeologist looked at Bay, not sure if he was saddened or relieved to see the last of this mysterious man. In a way, Ardeth's arrival at the dig seemed to have been the precursor to all of the other fantastic occurrences, and maybe with his departure, things would settle back into something akin to normalcy. But Bernstein had to admit that he liked the man, and he would miss having him around. There was something oddly reassuring about Bay's presence, and his contribution to Ahm Shere's rediscovery would be missed.

"Are you sure, Ardeth?" he finally asked, watching as the younger man walked towards him. "There's still room for you there, if you'd like to stay. We can always use an extra set of hands, and a good brain…"

"Thank you, sir." The Med Jai conveyed his appreciation for Bernstein's offer with a small bow. "But no. I am needed elsewhere, and I must go." He reached out, and the two men shook hands briefly. "I thank you, though, for your kindness, and for letting me be a part of your team for the short time I was able."

"Don't mention it, Bay," said Bernstein, his respect for the younger man showing in his smile and the warmth in his eyes. "And come back and visit us anytime, you hear?"

"One never knows what fate holds in store, Professor, and if the opportunity presents itself, I will most certainly see you again." Ardeth returned his smile, then glanced briefly towards Eliana and Imhotep. Bernstein caught the look, and realized that while he hadn't been especially observant about such things, the younger folk at the dig had obviously formed some strong attachments. Eliana was looking at Bay unhappily, obviously sad to see him go, and even Imhotep seemed to regret that the man was leaving. Odd, because Bernstein could have sworn the two of them had taken an instant dislike to each other, bristling and circling each other like animals guarding their territory. That distrust seemed to have subsided now, though—they must have come to terms with whatever was bothering them, and set it aside.

But whatever the reason, it looked like the three of them needed to say their own goodbyes, and while he wasn't a particularly diplomatic man, Bernstein did have sense enough to know when to leave. "I'm going to head down for the car now, Ellie," he said, already heading for the door. "You three say your goodbyes, and I'll see you downstairs." To Ardeth, he lifted a hand in farewell. "God speed, Ardeth, and stay safe. It's been a pleasure knowing you."

"The same to you, Professor," Ardeth returned, making a curious swirling salute with his dark-skinned hand. "May Allah guide you in your journeys, and keep you safe."

Bernstein left, closing the door behind him, leaving the three of them alone in the room.

* * *

Ardeth stared at the door for a long moment, then turned back towards them, his black desert garb swirling briefly, then settling around him like a covering of shadow. He moved to stand beside the bed, gazing down at Eliana for a small eternity before finally bending to press a brief kiss to her forehead. "Be happy," he whispered, loud enough to be heard, softly enough that only she heard it. Turning to Imhotep, he reached out a hand, clasping the priest's in his, his other hand on Imhotep's shoulder. "And goodbye to you, my friend. May your gods bless you and guide you, and keep you safe." A quick squeeze of the hand, and he was backing away, turning to leave. At the door, he paused, turning once more to face them. The smile he wore was sincere, but tinged with sadness. 

"Godspeed to you both. Live, love, laugh—enjoy all the many riches this world can offer you. Be at peace, and know that I leave you in peace." He was gone in a swirl of light and shadow.

When the sound of his booted feet could no longer be heard echoing to them from the hallway beyond, Imhotep turned to Eliana, a question in his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked, concerned over the apprehensive look he wore. Surely there was nothing that would keep her here longer; surely he and her father had not had words; surely…

"Eliana," he said, closing the distance between them, reaching out and enfolding both her hands in his. "Nothing is wrong," he promised, seeing the worry in her eyes. "I have spoken to your father," he said, and then fell silent, his usual adroitness with words gone, replaced with an unfamiliar awkwardness.

"He didn't…you didn't…" she broke off, upset again. "You _did_ have some sort of argument, didn't you?"

Two fingers pressed against her lips, and she fell silent, waiting for him to explain. "We did not argue, Eliana." His eyes crinkled at the corners, and a self-mocking smile pulled at the corners of his lips. "And if you will give me a moment, I believe I can gather my wits enough to tell you…" With a grimace, he lapsed into silence again.

"Tell me…?" she questioned, the movement of her fingers on his lips unbearably erotic, reminding him, even in the sterile setting of the hospital room of things better left for other times, other places, certainly not an open room in a public institution. _But still…_ He replaced his fingers with his mouth, silencing her with the teasing movement of his lips over hers, stealing the question from her mind, replacing it with a fog of desire.

"If you insist on interrupting me, I will have to find other ways of silencing you," he warned, releasing her mouth briefly, poised to reclaim it if she chose to ignore the warning. Eyes sparkling, she opened her mouth, as if to speak, daring him to silence her once more, and with a matching flare of humor in his eyes, mixed with something else entirely, he obliged. But this time, the kiss was brief, just as tender, just as intimate, but over much more quickly, as though he really _did_ want to have the conversation he'd tried to start before. "Eliana," he begged, "please have mercy. Allow me a moment…" He pulled away, releasing her hands, closing his eyes as he sought to center himself, regain the eloquence that normally came so easily to him. This time, she gave him the space and silence he required, and when he opened his eyes again, she could see that he had found what he needed.

The look in his eyes when he met hers stole her breath away. It was an expression of pure yearning, an endless hunger, an unquenchable thirst. It was all of those things and more—it was love, and desire, and an aching, infinite need. Her eyes roamed over his face, memorizing every plane, every angle of his beloved features. Slowly, one of her hands reached out to touch him, tracing the strength of his brow, the line of his cheekbone, the fullness of his lips. He turned his head, capturing her hand in his, pressing a kiss into her palm before meeting her eyes again.

"Eliana," he began, holding her hand in both of his. "I love you." She opened her mouth to return the sentiment, but he shook his head, touching his fingers to her lips once more. "I know that you have doubted this, and the blame is mine. I was a blind, stupid fool—I knew you from the moment I first touched you, from the moment I found you in the darkness of Ahm Shere, just after you had spoken the words to release me from the hell that imprisoned me. I knew you—_you_, the part of you that makes you special, unique, not just a face, or a name, or a body, but _you_—your essence, your spirit…your soul. Souls do not change, my love, and yours is as it always has been—beautiful, rare, extraordinary."

His eyes searched hers, and his hands cupped her face, thumbs tracing the lines of her cheekbones, the strength and gentleness of his touch warming her everywhere inside—even places where she didn't know she'd been cold. Her hands encircled his wrists, and she held him to her, closing her eyes and leaning towards him. Gently, he pressed kisses to her eyelids, her forehead, the bridge of her nose, and finally, a soft, fleeting pressure of his lips on hers reinforced his next words. "I knew you, and I let the shock and anger blind me to everything else. When I realized what had happened, that you hadn't returned for me at all, but that enough time had passed for you to have lived, died, and be reborn…" He shook his head, his mouth a grim line, the anger turned inwardly. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive you for," she began, only to have him interrupt her again.

"But there is," he assured her. "Even after my initial shock—when you and I had talked, when we had spent time together, when we had…made love…" The rich music of his voice deepened, grew rough with the memory of their night at the pool. "Even after _that_, I could not bring myself to confess my love for you—I was too proud, too afraid. I have hurt you unbearably, and you need to know that I was wrong. There has never been a moment when I truly stopped loving you."

"You mean when you stopped loving Anck-su-namun, don't you?" Her voice was a quiet whisper, giving voice to all her old fears, all her old doubts about who it was that Imhotep truly loved. She'd thought they were gone, but there they were again, crawling back from the depths to which they'd been banished.

"No." He waited for the single word to penetrate the wall of her doubt, then tipped her face towards his. Waiting until the emotion-clouded green of her eyes had focused on him, and he was absolutely sure he had her attention, he shook his head. "No. You need to stop thinking of these parts of yourself as separate entities, my love. They are not. They are _you_; they have always _been_ you. Think of it as the soul changing garments as it moves through time, through the different cycles of live and death, birth and rebirth. Although the outer trappings change, and that is reflected in looks and personality, the inner core is unchanging, constant. You are who you always have been. The name does not matter, the face does not matter, even though you are now just as beautiful as you ever were before. What I recognized in the darkness of Ahm Shere, what I knew as the woman I'd loved—the woman I _still_ loved—was _you_. I did not cease loving one woman, and begin to love another. Neither did I begin to love one woman, hoping that the other would reappear, somehow. You are the same, you have _never_ been different to me—and the rejoining you experienced has simply brought the scattered pieces of your soul together again. Even you have said that you feel complete now, in a way you did not before." He paused, searching her eyes once more. "Is it so impossible for you to believe that I can understand this, and that the words I speak to you are true? I love you. _You_. Who you are now, who you have always been." He gave up with a sigh, and dropped his hands from her face. "I do not know what else I can say, what else I can do, to convince you of this, but I will gladly spend the remainder of my days attempting the feat."

She watched him silently as the certainty in her heart that he had spoken the truth, that he loved her—Eliana, the person she knew as herself—warred briefly with the remaining shards of doubt. Biting her lip, she bowed her head, remembering her own words to Callie, just minutes before. _… if you feel something for someone, if you love someone, don't ever walk away from that, at least without giving it a chance—there is nothing more important, in this world, or any other._

What was she doing? What was the matter with her? Imhotep loved her. He had pledged his love in so many ways, so many times, it was ridiculous to doubt him. And she knew, intellectually at least, that what he said was true. It was a matter of convincing her heart to believe it, now. The part of her that was Eliana still held on to some of those doubts—but the part that was Anck-su-namun, the part that was Meela, the parts that were other women, down through the ages—those parts of her knew already, and accepted the truth of what he had said. If _she_ could recognize herself as one complete being now, was it so hard to believe that Imhotep could do the same? That he _had_ done the same, even before the god had healed her fragmented soul?

"I love you, Imhotep," she whispered, her hand lifting briefly to his face, caressing the smooth strength of his features. "And I know, beyond a doubt, that I would be a fool not to believe what you have said. This has all been a lot for me to understand, to accept…" She smiled into his eyes, resolutely laying aside her fear, and embracing the future—their future. "But I _will_ work through this. I _will_."

"And I will help you, in whatever way I can." There was no way she could doubt the quiet intensity of his promise.

"I know you will," she nodded, with another smile, taking his hands in hers. "And I believe I'll take you up on that offer about the rest of your days…"

He returned her smile, but the look in his eyes was serious. "I love you more than life itself, Eliana—more than anything on this earth." He dropped his eyes, playing with her fingers, twining them with his, caressing them as he held them. "We have made so many mistakes, you and I," he continued, "so many false starts, so many misunderstandings…"

"I love you, Imhotep," she said, needing to say the words, needing to let him know that he meant everything to her, as well. "There is nothing in this world or the next that means more to me than you."

He nodded, lifting his eyes once more. "We have been given another chance, you and I. It is more than we could have ever hoped for, more than we could have dreamed. We have a chance now—a hope for a future. We are free, and the forces that held us apart for so many centuries are gone—ashes in the wind. There is nothing to stand between us any more."

He spoke the truth—there were no further obstacles. But if that were the case, why did he look so serious, so solemn? "Imhotep, that is cause for celebration, not sadness. Why are you so somber? We can finally be together."

"This time, Eliana," he said, and the full curve of his mouth set in a determined line, "this time will be different. No more hiding, no more secrets. If we are to be together, we will be together under the blazing noontime sun, not hidden by the dark of night. Our union will be blessed by the gods and by man, not cursed and reviled by them. I will settle for nothing less—it is everything or nothing, this time. You are mine, and mine alone—and I am yours. I will hide no longer."

"What are you saying, Imhotep?" she asked, uncertain whether to rejoice or be afraid. His words sounded like an ultimatum. "You know I love you. I want to be with you—there is nothing I want more."

"Then you will be my wife, Eliana." He watched her reaction to his words, hoping to see joy on her face, bracing himself for whatever else he might find. "I have spoken to your father," he continued, the words coming out in a rush. "He has given us his blessing."

"Of course he has," Eliana said, tears welling in her eyes. "He knows how much I love you. He would never stand in the way of that…"

"You need to understand, Eliana," Imhotep cut her off, needing to spell out the uncertainty of what the future held for him, for them both. They had love aplenty, but he was a man out of time, displaced from everything familiar to him, facing an uncertain future. "I am nothing here. In the past, in Egypt, I was a wealthy man—I had power, influence, a place in my society. I was respected—a priest, a healer, a vizier to the most powerful man in Egypt. There, I could have given you a home, security, the finest clothing, jewels, anything your heart desired. Here," he grimaced, "I am uneducated as to the history and technology of this world. I have no occupation, no way to provide for you." _No matter what modern trickery Connelly and Bay might employ_, he added mentally. He saw her about to protest, and he quickly continued. "I will find a place for myself here, Eliana. There has never been anything I could not do, if I set my mind to it. I will learn, and I will create a future for myself, for us. But this will not happen overnight. It will take time. Your father has offered to let me assist with the Ahm Shere excavation until that time comes, but…"

"But that's wonderful," she exclaimed, moving to embrace him. He held her at arm's length, staring into her eyes.

"Eliana, there is nothing more that I want than for you to be mine—legally, lawfully, joined in the eyes of god and man." One lip curled down, in rueful expression of self-disgust. "But I have virtually nothing to offer you. In my day, it was customary for the man to pay a bride-price to the bride's family before asking for her hand. It was expected; it was required. In my day, I could have given you riches beyond compare."

"In your day," she responded quietly, "you could have done nothing. I belonged to the one man you couldn't free me from. We were powerless, more helpless than the lowliest slave, poorer than the most lowborn servant. There, we _had_ no future. Here…the possibilities are endless." She reached out to touch him again, cupping her hand around his jaw, running her fingers over the smoothly shaved bronze skin. "I have no doubt of what you can do with your life Imhotep, in this time or any other. You are a remarkable, extraordinary man, and I would be proud to be your wife. I don't care about wealth, or status, or position—I love you. We have waited eons to be together. Surely in all that time, we have learned that the greatest treasure on earth is the freedom to love and be loved." She gazed into his eyes, the green of hers glowing with love for him. Her hand drifted down, slowly coming to rest over his heart. "There is nothing on the earth more important to me than to be with you. The rest will see to itself. I will marry you, Imhotep—today, tomorrow, as soon as we can. We've had so little time together here—there was never any time to talk, or to plan… There are so many things I want to show you, so many wonderful things out there waiting for you to see, and do, and experience…" She broke off, flushing with the realization that she sounded rather like a twenty-first century tour guide, trying to sell the era to a visitor from the distant past.

Imhotep nodded, a smile softening his lips and setting the gold flecks to dancing in his eyes. He understood her eagerness to share her world with him. He was no less eager to begin exploring it with her. He captured her hand in both of his, and brought it to his lips, placing a tender kiss on her knuckles before lowering her hand to the bed once more. "There are marvels aplenty in this world of yours, my love. We will explore it together, then, you and I."

Eliana studied him, watching every nuance of expression and feeling pass through his eyes, cross over his face. Reaching up once more, she traced the curve of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the full curve of his lips. "I have faith in you, Imhotep—faith in you and faith in the god's promise to you—to us. You will find your place in this world, and I will be there to celebrate its discovery with you."

She leaned towards him, pressing a kiss to his lips—a kiss not born of passion, but of trust and faith and boundless, unending love. "And this world is _ours_, not just mine. It is your world now, too. And it awaits you, as well, with all its treasures, all its opportunities. Just reach out your hand and take what is offered; it will be yours."

Imhotep could feel the moisture welling in his own eyes. Slowly, his fingers reached to remove the golden serpentine spiral that he wore on the smallest finger of his left hand. Somehow, like the scarab pectoral, which he still wore underneath his modern garb, it had survived his awakening and rebirth from the shattered ruins of Ahm Shere. It was a sacred ring, a symbol of eternity, a token worn by the priests of Osiris to mark them as the god's. It was hardly the kind of ring he had thought to present on such an occasion, but in its own way, it was more fitting than any other. It signified life from death, eternity from nothingness, a seamless binding of past to future. Few other symbols would be as appropriate. Taking her hand, he fit the ring onto Eliana's finger, where the heavy band reached almost to her knuckle.

"This I _can_ offer you," he said, feeling ashamed that he had nothing else. "It is the only thing of value that I possess."

"You're wrong," she said, shaking her head as the tears coursed down her cheeks. "You've already given me the greatest treasure in the world—you've given me your love." She looked down at the heavy golden band that looped around her finger—golden twists and spirals that both captured and reflected the sun's light. "The ring is beautiful, but no treasure in the world can match your love."

"Are you sure of this, Eliana?" he asked, the doubt creeping into his eyes once more. "Be very sure. Once you are mine, I will not let you go. It is forever, this time."

She laughed then, pushing against his restraining hands and launching herself into his arms, giddy with joy. Throwing her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss against his jaw, she whispered, "I have always been yours, my love. Always."

He embraced her then, as well, a fierce hug that squeezed the breath from her lungs. Burying his face against the softness of her neck, he felt his heart expand until he thought it must surely burst. Over the pounding drum of his heartbeat, he could barely hear the words she said. But they sounded familiar, somehow. For a second, he thought he'd heard…

"What?" he asked her, pulling away just a little, searching her eyes. "What did you say?"

"I said," she laughed through her tears, as she pressed her lips against his, sealing their promise to each other with a touch of mouths, a bond of flesh and spirit that would never be broken, "Our love is everlasting, eternal—a love that lasts longer than the temples of the gods."

* * *

In the darkness of space, ninety-three million miles away from the green-blue planet it had just passed by, invisible now to the inhabitants of that world, the solitary comet began its elliptical pass around the sun before heading back into deep space. 

A few thousand miles from the flaming conflagration, the perfect orbit of the comet wobbled, faltering as a giant flare from the sun's surface reached out towards it, knocking it to one side, infinitesimally altering its path. That was enough.

The comet wavered, moving fractionally closer to the burning surface, its orbit compromised, its precise path no longer sure. Flailing, it began a losing battle against the massive gravitational pull working against it. But the battle was over even before it began. With an inexorable finality, the solar flare lanced out again, enclosing the comet in a burning fist of flame, dragging it down in a killing embrace.

The comet hurtled through the layers of the sun's atmosphere, passing through the corona, traveling through the chromosphere, plunging into the photosphere, and finally burying itself within the burning reactor of the sun's inner core. In seconds, it was over, the comet's atoms split apart and vaporized, its essence absorbed and transformed by the massive fusion furnace.

Almost immediately the storm on the sun's surface subsided, and the burning ball of flame once again became a peaceful beacon of warmth and life, shining down upon the Earth as it had for untold eons.


	26. Chapter 26

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

_Blue-lidded daughter of dawn, golden lady of the mountains, carrier of her father's wisdom, let an old man rest in your arms. Let him look last on love's face, breathing love's breath. I live in light a million years. The sun rises or sets now—it matters not. Here is ecstasy in death and certainty in life. We are gods in the body of god, truth and love our destinies. Go then and make of the world something beautiful, set up a light in the darkness._

_--"Hymn to Hathor", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

The golden light of the setting sun gilded the balcony where Eliana stood, watching as the quiet of evening enveloped Luxor. From where she stood, the city was arrayed out before her, stretching off to the left and right as far as she could see. Straight ahead, the last rays of sunlight painted the Nile in brilliant shades of red and orange, the swiftly flowing water sparkling like a stream of diamonds as it flowed on its way north to Giza and Cairo.

A warm breeze blew in from the desert, drifting through her hair and making her deep red robe billow around her ankles. She lifted her face to the sky, noticing the first stars of the evening as they began to appear. The comet, she noticed, was gone now, faded back, she supposed, into the vastness of the universe from which it had come.

Behind her, the sheer silk draperies parted, and a tall figure stepped through the open, glass-paned double doors to join her on the balcony. Eliana smiled as her new husband slid his arms around her, gently pulled her back to rest against him, and nestled his chin on her shoulder. Lifting her hands, she laid them on the powerful, silk covered arms encircling her and leaned back into his embrace.

They stood like that for some time, not moving, not speaking, until the sun had set completely, and night began to steal over the city. Finally, Eliana turned within Imhotep's embrace, looking up into his eyes and smiling at the bemused expression on his face. She could happily look into those eyes forever, she thought, feeling almost physically caressed by the warm light of love shining from the golden brown depths.

"Happy, my love?" he asked softly, smiling that crooked half smile that she loved. His arms were still linked loosely around her, still holding her against him.

"How could I not be happy?" she answered, laying her cheek against his broad chest and rubbing it against the cool black silk of his robe. Her arms encircled his waist and she pressed close to him, feeling his warmth and hearing the strong, steady beat of his heart. "Everything I have ever wanted is right here in my arms."

For a long while, they simply stood there, content to bask in each other's warmth and nearness. Then, with a smile, Imhotep leaned away from her, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear with one long, elegant finger. "And what adventures do you have planned for us for tomorrow, my love? More museums, more libraries, more…" he trailed off, not even daring to guess what she might have planned for them. For the last week, they had spent almost every day on a continuous journey of discovery, Eliana's eagerness to show him all the wonders of the modern world only surpassed by his eagerness to see them. And together, they had explored the world of their past, as well, visiting the ancient sites, the temples, the tombs, both of them filled with reverence and nearly moved to tears by the crumbling but still magnificent remains of the civilization they had once called their own. By day, they explored and learned, exulting like children over each new marvel, each new adventure, and by night… Nights held their own journeys of discovery, even more pleasurable than those embarked upon by day.

"Nothing, actually," she admitted, looking up into his face with a small frown. "We only have a couple of days left, and then our honeymoon will be over, and we'll have to leave for Cairo. I thought we could just spend this last little bit of time in Luxor together, not doing much of anything…" Within days, their life would be chaotic. She would be starting her new job as a lecturer in applied linguistics at the American University in Cairo. She'd also need to start working soon with Akil Hamid, who had by now returned to his position at the Museum of Antiquities. The Ahm Shere site would be active for many months yet, but already its treasures were beginning to trickle out into the world. Soon, they would need to begin the tedious work of organizing and cataloguing the artifacts that the museum had managed to obtain for its own collection. Negotiations with the Sudanese government had been intense; but still smarting from the embarrassment of what had almost happened at the site, the Sudanese were a bit more accommodating than they had proven in years past.

And Imhotep himself would soon be busy, as well. In the weeks after her release from the hospital, he had returned to the site, helping out where he could, assisting in the translations of some of the more difficult hieroglyphs contained in the pyramid's vast tunnels and chambers. He and Akil Hamid had worked together closely, and the older man had been so taken with Imhotep's knowledge and patience in his work that he'd finally brought up the subject of a position with the museum itself. Armed with the paperwork that Connelly had produced for him in just a single day, the business of finding gainful employment was no longer a problem. He was officially, if not exactly technically, a citizen of the twenty-first century world. He would begin his work at the museum only a scant day or so after Eliana's job began. And there was still so much to do, so much to learn…

"My love, I would like nothing better than to do absolutely nothing, especially with you. Although I very much doubt," he teased, pressing warm lips to the curve of her neck, "that we will do _nothing_. I can think of an abundance of things that I would love to do with you, and _to_ you, and none of them have anything to do with leaving this room." Laughing at the playful shove she gave him, he continued, "And if by some unlikely chance we grow tired of those amusements…" Another kiss, this time just below her earlobe, sent shivers down her spine. "…which I doubt we will, but…"

He leaned back, still holding her, but letting her heart rate return to normal, at least for now. "There is always my 'education' to see to. After all, I still have three thousand years of history to review," he reminded her, amazed as always that he had been given this extraordinary gift of living a life in a world millennia after he had been born, a world where men could speak to each other from opposite sides of the globe, travel enormous distances within hours while flying through the air, receive news from all over the world instantaneously, routinely perform miracles of medicine, and, perhaps most remarkably of all, actually walk on the surface of the moon.

Eliana had presented him with a laptop computer several weeks ago, along with Hebrew translations of several encyclopedias on CD. Although his mastery of the English language was progressing daily, and he was already able to use it with relative ease, he was still more comfortable with the older language. He had already read over half the information there, and the sheer volume of knowledge available to modern society staggered him. He had much to learn, but his clever mind and quick intellect was absorbing information at an amazing rate, and he had always been imminently adaptable. He would find his place in this new world—he had no doubts on that score.

But not right now, or tonight, or tomorrow, or even the next day. Right now, all he desired was to be right here, next to this woman, to whom he was now joined, not just by the bonds of love they shared, but by the laws of man and society. She was his, bound to him by ties that no one could refute, and he intended to spend every moment he had loving her and thanking the gods—her God, his gods, every god in the universe—for his good fortune. Somehow, by the grace of a benevolent deity, he had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of his own past, his own failings, his own destruction, and he would spend the remainder of his lifetime being grateful.

And the greatest gift of all—that Eliana was finally, absolutely, eternally his, and that in this lifetime, at least, he'd had to share her with no one—that gift was completely beyond price. Silently, he thanked fate for her capricious goodness, that streak of sentimental fancy of hers that made kings out of beggars, beggars of out kings, and sometimes, just sometimes, allowed a lost man to recover his own soul.

But there would be time for reflection later, much later, and time aplenty to count his blessings. Just now, there were other matters to consider, not the least of which was the very erroneous statement his wife had just made. Smiling, he pulled her more tightly against him, reveling in her feel, her scent, her touch. "And if you think that this—what is the word you used? Honeymoon? If you think that this _honeymoon_ will be over in a handful of days, well…" He grinned wickedly now, his long, supple fingers moving lightly over the skin exposed by her loosely tied robe.

"…I do not think so."

Eliana gasped as pleasure shot through her like an electrical charge, making her skin tingle and her heart race. They had made love countless times in the days and nights past, each time more wonderful, more magical than the time before. She never failed to be amazed at her husband's creativity and imagination—or the wanton inventiveness he inspired in her. This day had been spent like the others, drinking in the history and beauty of the world outside, but now… Now, the night stretched out before them, endless hours in which to enjoy each other and give free rein to the desire that always simmered between them.

Returning his smile, Eliana took Imhotep's hand and pulled him back into the room with her, moving through the silk-covered doorway, but leaving the door itself open to the night air. As she led the way to the large, satin-covered bed, she asked,

"And just how long will it last, my love?"

"A lifetime, Eliana." His answer was a husky whisper, as he pulled her into his arms and bent his head towards hers. The love that shone from his eyes dimmed the stars. "A lifetime."

And then there were no more words.

* * *

"It is time, child," said the Voice, the light and fire of its being flaring into brilliance once more. "Are you ready?" 

_I am_, said the tiny soul, the quivering excitement of its tone bearing silent testimony to how very long it had waited for this moment. A second chance; a new beginning. It had waited eons for its time to come again; it had lingered for a small eternity in this space between one existence and the next with a stubbornly impatient determination to start over, live its life, have its time. And finally, finally, the god had kept his promise, the wheel had turned, fate had grasped the soul's thread once more in her hand and prepared to weave it into the unfolding tapestry below.

As the light unfurled, slowly releasing its protective grasp on the little being it had safeguarded through the millennia, the soul spun outwards, racing for the shimmering portal that it saw had opened, a one-time rift in the fabric of space and time, growing from a tiny speck in the endless dark to a gaping, yawning gate through which the soul could pass.

"You are sure, little one?" the Voice questioned one final time, although it knew this bit of Creation very well, knew that there would be no last-minute change of heart. "Once past the gate, there is no way of returning, save the one…"

_I want to return_, it said, but its headlong flight had slowed, faltered, and to the great surprise of the Voice, it momentarily turned back. _Please tell me_, asked the little being, a tiny quaver betraying its anxiety, _will they want me to return? Do they still want me as theirs?_

The light flared into momentary brilliance, and a soft tendril of luminescence reached out, briefly enfolding the small entity in a comforting embrace of warmth and love. "They have never stopped wanting you," promised the Voice, the pure, beautiful music of its silent song reverberating through the space between the heavens. "They have loved you since the moment of your creation, longed for you through the ages. There would be no greater gift for them than to return you to them. You will make them complete in ways they could never imagine. You will bring them love, joy, hope, faith. You will be the means through which they—regardless of where they have sought it in the past—will truly achieve immortality. But still, the choice is yours."

_I will go then,_ it declared, joy in every thread of the words. But once more, there was a small hesitation. _But you…_

"What, child?" queried the Voice. "What concerns you?"

_If I leave you, will _you_ be alone?_ The tiny soul sounded afraid, almost hesitant to ask the question, not wanting to be held back, but unwilling to let anyone linger in this nothingness without someone. _I do not wish for you to be alone…_

The Voice rumbled with a sound almost like laughter, and the shining light pulsated with a deep, rich vibrancy. "My dear child," it assured, "you have no need for concern. I will not be alone. I will be with you wherever you go, wherever on the Earth you roam, for the rest of your days. And one day, long from now, you will return to me, and I will welcome you back with great rejoicing. It is how it should be. You need have no fear for me."

_And I will know you?_ asked the soul, not wanting to forget this benevolent being who had stood with it and safeguarded it for centuries. _I will not forget?_

"The memory of your time here will fade," allowed the Voice, a tinge of sadness in its ageless melody. "But this, too, is how it should be. In the beginning, the memory will be brightest, the clearest. As time passes, the remembrance will fade from your consciousness, but a part of you will still remember. A part of you will bear the imprint of my love for all time. It will never fade."

_I am ready, then_, said the little being, turning once more towards the beckoning gateway. It drifted nearer, and as it drew close, the shimmering radiance of the portal seemed to reach out towards it, enveloping it, embracing it, pulling it inexorably towards the opening through which it must pass. One last time, the soul looked back, but there was no hesitation now, just a simple, devout joy. _Goodbye,_ it called to the Voice, as it bridged the gap between worlds. _I will not forget you_, it promised_. I will remember._

The Voice watched as the gateway flared with the light of eternity, as the soul entered the passageway through which it would return. A twinge of sadness did flare briefly then, but was gone in seconds, as the light read the future with effortless ease, charting the course of this little being's existence in the earthly plane. A long life, health, happiness, and an overflowing abundance of love would mark its destiny this time. The light flared again, irrevocably sealing the gateway through which the soul had traveled. For a heartbeat, it pulsed with dazzling resplendence, then in another it had winked out, traveling back through the spaces inside infinity where it dwelt.

On the earth below, a single shining star shot through the heavens over Egypt, flaring with a momentary brilliance, then fading from view, leaving the midnight velvet canopy of night untouched once more.

* * *

A falcon's cry pierced the night air of the desert, as it wheeled over the sweeping expanse of sand. Crying again, it dropped swiftly through the sky to land on the leather covered arm of the horseman who sat atop the high ridgeline of an arid plateau. 

The black robed rider caressed the smooth feathers of the majestic bird, whispering soothingly to it in a melodic Arabic dialect. From behind him, another rider gained the top of the ridge.

"Our job here is done, my friend," the second man told the first, gesturing out over the cliff's edge. Below him, the rocky cliff face dropped off for a hundred meters, and on the floor of the valley below, what should have been more desert, but was instead a lush, verdant carpet of emerald green, spread out in all directions as far as the eye could see. The Oasis of Ahm Shere was a beautiful sight, sparkling like a lost jewel in the vast ocean of sand.

Ardeth Bay looked out over the incredible green vista below, an enigmatic look on his darkly handsome face. Again he stroked the bird, soothing it with a simple touch.

"And yet I wonder, brother," he said softly, and his voice, deep and melodic, held a hint of wonder, and a shard of warning.

"The oasis is restored, and the Creature is no more. But the black book was never recovered. As long as it is out there, danger remains. True, it no longer holds the power to call forth the Creature, but it contains other secrets, some even more dangerous. No, friend, our job is not over, nor will it be, until the Med Jai are once again in possession of the book. Until then, we must remain vigilant."

The two men looked out over the oasis, and the vastness of the desert beyond, for several moments more. Suddenly, with a cry, the falcon beat its powerful wings and launched itself into the sky, rapidly gaining altitude and soon becoming no more than a speck far off in the blue-black canopy. Kicking their mounts, the two riders turned as one and rode off into the night.


	27. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

_Hail two pairs of lips touching in the amber blush of sunset, I've not wasted love. May we live forever._

_Hail seer of the beginning and the end coming forth unbidden, I've not altered the flow of nature. I released myself to destiny. A seed must take root. Winds must blow. May we live forever._

_Hail mind of heaven, arranger of the stars, I've not questioned the laws of nature, nor scorned the gods of another man. May we live in peace forever._

_May the light shine through us and on us and in us. May we die each night and be born each morning that the wonder of life should not escape us. May we love and laugh and enter lightly into each other's hearts. May we live forever. May we live forever._

_--Excerpt from "The Confession", Egyptian Book of the Dead, __as translated by Normandi Ellis_

An ear-splitting howl rent the pre-dawn quiet, jarring Imhotep into instant wakefulness, signaling an abrupt end to that night's sleep. Beside him, Eliana moaned and rolled over, opening bleary, still-tired eyes.

"It's only been an hour," she groaned, peering at the luminous face of the bedside clock. "She can't be hungry again…

"Shhh, my love," Imhotep soothed, pulling the blankets up around her. "Go back to sleep for a while. I will see to her."

Eliana muttered unintelligibly, something that could have been a "Thank you," but she fell back asleep almost instantly, and the words were lost, muffled by the pillows. He grinned, smoothing back a sleep-mussed lock of hair from her face, pausing to let his palm linger on the curve of her face.

Another scream threatened to shatter his eardrums, and he headed for the baby's room, reaching for his robe as he passed the chair where it had been discarded the night before. Only a few short hours ago, it seemed, he reflected, his mouth forming a slight grimace.

Imhotep had never been one to linger abed, habitually rising earlier than most, and staying awake well past what could be considered a normal bedtime, but even he was showing the effects of sleep-deprivation of late. Since the arrival of their daughter, Meskhenet—a month earlier than expected, even then arranging things to suit her own personal schedule—sleep had become a precious commodity. It was not that the child was sickly or clinging, like some babies, who cried from discomfort or a constant need for reassurance. No, not this child. No mewling, newborn whimper from her, not from the moment she'd slipped from her mother's womb, howling loud infant curses at a world that was too bright, too cold. Her shrieks were lusty, imperious—a stubborn demand that her parents were expected—nay, commanded—to answer. He had known, from the moment he'd first set eyes upon her, that this would be no meek, docile little girl, content with cuddling and kisses. Her startlingly blue eyes, wide and unblinking, had regarded him intently, as though he were some strange creature she was determined to study and categorize. From the first, she had lived by her own schedule, nursing frequently, sleeping in fits and spurts, sleeping less than any newborn he'd ever heard of or encountered personally. When she was awake, she soaked up stimuli like a sponge. You could almost see the neural pathways in her brain connecting and growing in leaps and bounds.

But her demanding intellect was tempered by a charming sweetness, and when she'd smiled her first toothless baby grin at him at just one week of age, Imhotep had been lost. She'd claimed his heart on the day she was born—before that, even, when she'd been just an abstraction—a soft rounding of her mother's abdomen, a tiny kick against his hand. When she looked at him with those wide, slightly nearsighted baby eyes and curved her tiny rosebud mouth into a gurgling grin, she'd managed to take his heart and wrap it around her beautiful, pudgy little finger. He was hers, heart and soul, for all eternity. And she was his. _His daughter_. Those words were beyond price, a fathomless treasure that awed and humbled him every time he saw her.

Her name was Egyptian for destiny, and each time he looked into her eyes, Imhotep knew that they had chosen wisely. She embodied destiny—not just her own, which he knew would be great, but his as well, and Eliana's. She was their real immortality, their hope for the future, the means by which they would live on once their time in this world had come to an end. The simple beauty of it was overwhelming.

Reaching down into the bassinet, Imhotep lifted the baby out, gently cradling her in the curve of his arm. Meskhenet quieted almost immediately, not hungry, not wet, not needing anything but the stimulation of another human presence. Her father smiled down at her, watching as she waved her tiny arms, kicked her little legs, screwed her beautiful little face up into one of the myriad of baby expressions she was endlessly experimenting with. As she pursed her mouth, speaking an undecipherable baby language of grunts and coos, tiny bubbles of spittle formed on her lips and seemed to amuse her mightily, for she dissolved into a bout of infant giggles. Imhotep felt his heart expand anew with love for this tiny being.

"You are ready for the day to begin, eh, little one?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Another giggling hiccup confirmed it. "Very well, my little love," he told her, one long-fingered hand gently cupping the back of her tiny head, caressing the soft cap of dark, downy hair, wondering at the contrast between the light pink of her skin and the dark bronze of his. Such a tiny thing she was, such a small being, but such a boundless miracle.

Silently, Imhotep moved through the hushed dimness of the apartment, slipping quietly from the baby's room, cradling her in his arms as he made his way through the living quarters and to the French doors that opened out onto the small balcony. Outside, the last few stars of the night were fading, as the deep indigo of night lightened to violet and lavender on the eastern horizon. Standing in the early morning chill, he wrapped Meskhenet's blanket more tightly around her, hugging her tight against him to share his warmth. The baby didn't seem troubled in the slightest, however, and wriggled exuberantly, twisting in his arms and turning her face towards the dawn sky.

"It is beautiful, is it not, little one?" Imhotep murmured, turning so that the baby could see the sun as it rose from the depths beneath the earth and once more climbed to the heavens. "Almost as beautiful as you." A soft gurgle answered him, and flailing arms marked her agreement.

"Each new day is a blessing, daughter," he whispered, the hushed tone somehow seeming more fitting in this outdoor temple. "A priceless gift that we must treasure and cherish. Each day is its own eternity."

Again, the baby giggled, displaying a happy irreverence for the solemnity of her father's words. Imhotep fell silent, happy to simply hold her in his arms, awaiting the new day. How much had changed, he thought. How remarkable, and how precious the changes. They stood there together, watching as the first golden rays of sun pierced the lightening dark, watched as the burning orb of the day star peered over the edge of earth. Within minutes, it had risen higher, its rays spreading light and warmth over the lands of the Nile, spreading out long fingers and gilding the city, reaching out, even, to them, touching the balcony where they stood, unfurling and seeking.

"Behold the great god Amun-Re," whispered Imhotep, shifting his daughter to better see the dancing sunbeams. As he turned, a stray shaft of sunlight stretched out a tendril of brilliance towards her, painting the white of her blanket in dazzling shades of golden fire. The baby grew even more animated then, reaching out pudgy fingers towards the ray of sunlight, kicking and gurgling and stretching to capture it.

For a time, Imhotep watched Meskhenet chase the sunbeam, captivated by her single-minded fascination with the light. Then, as the brightening daylight began to wake the city spread out before them, he reluctantly captured her hand, tucking it inside the blanket once more, not wanting her to catch a chill.

"Come, my little love," he told her, turning towards the open doors and the warmth of the home's interior. Distracted from her playing, the child turned her attention from the sun to her father, reaching out a hand and stroking the smooth skin of his face, giggling and laughing, blue eyes sparkling with exuberant life and limitless joy.

As they reached the doorway, Imhotep paused, turning once more to gaze upon the newly risen sun. A small smile curved his lips as he beheld its fiery brilliance, and he bowed his head in a brief nod of veneration. "Thank you," he whispered, lifting his face once more.

There was no answer, of course, but as father and child stepped through the doorway and into their home, another shaft of the sun's light reached out towards them, the light and warmth of the celestial body dancing over them in silent blessing.


End file.
